


Fire and Water for Your Love

by dragongirlG



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, American Sign Language, Body Horror, Codependency, F/M, Gen, HYDRA Trash Party, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Long Live Feedback Comment Project, M/M, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Minor Character Death, Mute Bucky Barnes, Mute Steve Rogers, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Rape Recovery, Recovery, Seizures, Surgery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-20 14:33:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 65,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14263107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragongirlG/pseuds/dragongirlG
Summary: When the Avengers investigate an abandoned HYDRA base on behalf of S.H.I.E.L.D., they unexpectedly encounter a dark-haired man with a torn metal arm, who leads them to an even more shocking discovery deeper inside the base. The Avengers must reconcile what they have found with the lies S.H.I.E.L.D. has been telling for decades.Based onthisHYDRA Trash Meme prompt.





	1. Tony

Tony likes to think of himself as a pretty tough guy.

Okay, he still gets nightmares of Afghanistan – not that he’ll ever admit it to anyone but JARVIS, who has helpfully been providing him with therapy books – not that he’ll ever admit  _that_ , either – but, he’s been through some shit. He’s escaped from torture and terrorists (while designing an impossible suit in the meantime); he’s fought against aliens with said suit; he’s managed to deliver a nuclear bomb into space on what was essentially a suicide mission using said suit. Hell, he stood up in front of Congress and took back his own damn company. What’s scarier than a group of crusty old politicians who want your head on a platter?

The point is, Tony generally feels confident that he can handle a situation. But this old HYDRA base is - well, it’s pretty damn creepy. Even the horror stories dear old dad told him didn’t prepare him for this. Tony hadn’t even known there were still HYDRA bases around, especially in the United States. He’d thought they were all in Europe and destroyed during World War II.

Tony peers down at the stained, surgical table in front of him with a grimace. Leather restraints hang off the edge. Above the table sit circular metal halos with clamps and electrodes. The metal looks startlingly polished compared to the table.

“Perimeter secure,” Romanoff says into the comms. “Nothing on the outside here besides gravel and grass. Stark, Barton and I are headed your way. Find anything interesting?”

“Creepy, creepier, and creepiest, and no signs of humans anywhere,” Tony answers, scanning the room through his suit. There’s a cage in one corner of the room with a thick chain and padlock wrapped around the door. In the other corner sits a leather recliner that looks like it’s seen better days. Some kind of attachment is sticking out of it. Tony inches forward to peer at it, warning signals blaring in his head, and then snorts in amazement. It’s a dildo. A  _ribbed_  dildo, no less. Was HYDRA having  _sex parties_  down here?

“Some kink,” he mutters to himself.

“What was that, Stark?”

Tony clears his throat. “Nothing, spy kids. Come on and see for yourself. I’m stepping out of the suit but keeping my faceplate on. Still no life signs anywhere.”

Romanoff and Barton materialize behind him as the suit is packing itself neatly into a briefcase. Tony jumps a little. Just a little.

“Aw, no,” Barton mutters as his eyes catch sight of the chair.

Romanoff is staring up at the metal halos. “HYDRA was known for its experimentation,” she says, dropping her gaze down to survey the room. “Let’s look for any records. Stark, you look for anything electronic, upload what you can transfer into your servers.  I’ll do a sweep for paper records. Barton, cover our backs.”

“Yes ma’am,” says Tony. Romanoff smirks and leads the way into the dank corridor, where the lights are flickering ominously like some cliché horror film. Tony wants to roll his eyes, but there's a sick feeling in the base of his stomach that won't go away.

In the first room along the corridor, they encounter a huge glass MRI-like tube. It’s standing upright in the center of the room, and it glows with a pulsing, bright blue light that Tony immediately recognizes from the Tesseract. Barton inhales sharply and does an about-face. Romanoff watches him cautiously, assessing the room, and then nods once before following Barton. Tony’s arc reactor tingles in his chest as he surveys the room slowly. The tube is empty, but it’s attached to a bunch of monitors on wheels, like those in hospitals. The monitors don’t appear to have a power source beyond the tube, and their screens have been shattered so that their readouts are unsalvageable. He carefully scans the room, sending all the data back to JARVIS, checking the corners for any hidden traps or data caches. There’s nothing.

He finds Romanoff and Barton in a smaller room with dozens of filing cabinets. Barton is picking the locks, and Romanoff is sifting through the files, her lips pursed. “The tube is powered by the Tesseract somehow. It looks like they were trying to create something that would keep someone in stasis.”  

“What about the chair?” asks Tony. “Were they also trying to have a giant orgy?”

Romanoff’s glance is cold. “I haven’t found anything about that yet, but whoever sat in that chair probably didn’t do it voluntarily.”

Tony feels like an asshole. “Right,” he says. “I’m going to look for more machines.” He waits to get a nod from Romanoff and then wanders out to the corridor. Since the Chitauri invaded, he’s been learning the hard way that teamwork can be more effective than being a lone wolf, and that includes notifying your teammates of your location, your state of mind, and your physical condition, especially during an op. It’s a lot of paperwork, a lot of accountability, and it inspires in Tony a deep and newfound appreciation for Pepper. He misses her, and he’ll be glad to see her when they get home.

The next room is dark and filled with rows upon rows of modern computer servers that have been powered off. “Huh, that’s weird,” he mutters to himself. Some other nefarious organization must have commandeered this place recently. He gets to work extracting the hard drives. The methodical nature of it soothes him, and he’s humming the tender strains of AC/DC’s “Back in Black” when he senses something behind him. He pauses, carefully setting down the hard drive, and then turns, scanning the room. The suit picks up on something vaguely human-shaped in the corner of the room underneath a metal table. It’s not generating a lot of heat. It shifts, and Tony quickly unleashes his full suit, breathing a sigh of relief as the metal encases him. “Come on out,” he calls into the corner. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

A shadow moves out from underneath the metal table. Tony cautiously slides open his face plate to watch it. At first the only thing he can make out is a mess of broken wires sticking out of a metal joint. Then the form slowly resolves into an emaciated collection of limbs that is attached to the metal. The man’s face is half-hidden by dank, greasy hair, and there’s a collection of scars across his body that are too numerous for Tony to start cataloguing. He’s naked and appears to have no body hair except for that on his head and face. On closer inspection, it looks like his left arm’s been cut off at the shoulder, and the metal joint – still sparking with sawed-off wire – has been forced into him somehow. Tony traces the ropy scarring along the shoulder with his eyes, and he feels bile rise in his throat. It quickly buries his burgeoning curiosity about the arm.  

“Hey,” he says to the man, proud of himself for keeping his voice steady.

The man’s eyes dart upward quickly. Then he flinches and lurches backward, his protruding ribs hitting the metal table as Romanoff and Barton approach.

“Spy kids,” says Stark, still watching the man, who’s now hunched over and trembling, his arm crossed protectively across his stomach. “Find anything useful?”

“HYDRA kept prisoners here and experimented on them,” says Romanoff, her voice low. “Cryostasis. Hormone injections. Neural stimulation. Wound repair. Prosthetic limbs.”

Tony blanches and takes another look at the man in front of him.

The man catches his gaze. His eyes widen with fear, and he sinks down to his knees. He holds himself rigidly, clenching his right hand into a fist before he snakes it behind his back. He bows his head, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Aw, hey man,” says Barton. “You don’t need to do that.”

The man cringes, eyes fixed on the floor.

Romanoff nudges Barton out of the way. She crouches down in front of the man. “Subject,” she says firmly. 

The man tenses. His eyes flicker up toward her sharply.  

“I’m Agent Romanoff with S.H.I.E.L.D.,” she says. “We’re going to take you out of this base and treat you for injuries. What is your name?”

The man curls forward as if bracing for a blow, his eyes dropping to the floor. His lips press together tightly. Romanoff assesses him coolly. Tony is a little taken aback. He quickly reminds himself that Romanoff is just playing a part so that they can figure out what the hell is going on. She did make a convincing personal assistant, back in the day.

 “Stand up, if you can,” Romanoff says firmly.

The man visibly hesitates before placing his hand onto the ground, using it to leverage himself upward. He bows his head, baring the back of his neck as he sways a little in place. He’s trembling all over, either with fear or with the effort of keeping himself upright. Maybe both.

“Stay standing while Iron Man scans you for trackers.”

Tony grumbles as he shifts on his faceplate, but he does as she says anyway. He hadn’t thought of trackers. He supposes that there are some advantages to working with extremely paranoid spies. “Nada,” he calls out, when the scan is completed. He’s surprised. He thinks that there might have been one in the metal arm (and damn, do those exposed wires make him wince), but perhaps it’s in the part that’s been ripped off. His curiosity about the arm rises again, and he makes a note to check the hard drives for schematics.

 “Agent Barton will walk you to the exit,” says Romanoff, gesturing to Barton. “You may lean on him for support. If you feel your injuries worsening, you must signal that to us. Understood?”

The man presses his lips together and drops his eyes to the floor. He doesn’t nod or shake his head, but he does let Barton approach and wrap an arm around him to support his weight.

They make it to the corridor in a tense silence, the man stiffly shuffling his feet as they get to the door. Tony gathers up the hard drives and takes the rear behind Romanoff, still hovering in his suit. White-hot fury flashes through him as he notes the deep bruising along the man’s spine where the metal has been affixed underneath the skin. It looks like it’s been drilled into his bones.

The man tenses once they reach the corridor. He straightens his shoulders unsteadily and tries to plant his feet on the ground. It does little good, and Barton accidentally drags him forward by one step before Romanoff orders them to stop. She circles around and faces the man, who shrugs off Barton’s arm and squares his shoulders as best he can.

“What’s the problem?” she asks.

The man’s eyes dart around. A desperate look crosses his face, and he sinks to his knees, bowing his head, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He shoots a glance over his shoulder, then back to them, and repeats the action before lowering his head. Tony glances behind them and scans with the suit, but – “There’s nothing there,” he tells the group.

The man’s fist clenches behind his back. He looks over his shoulder and catches Tony’s eye through the now-opened faceplate. The desperation there hits Tony right in the gut, and he realizes he’s seen it before: that’s the look Tony wore when Pepper got kidnapped by Killian. It’s the look of a man trying to save someone they love.

Barton seems to catch on at the same time as Tony. “I think there’s something back there that he wants us to see.”

“Or someone,” says Romanoff, looking down at the man. “Stand up and lead the way. Barton will help you walk. Previous orders are standing – you must let us know if your injuries worsen.”

The man picks himself up from the floor much faster this time. He lopes down the corridor, then turns right abruptly down a dark hallway. Romanoff and Barton reach for their knives and arrows, respectively, and Tony readies his lasers just in case it’s a trap. They turn left, take a sharp right, another right, a left, and then a right.  The man stops in front of a nondescript metal door in the corner. There’s a series of polished padlocks holding it shut. The man’s face twists a little, fleeting anger crossing his face, before he steps aside and sinks to the floor again.

Barton exchanges a glance with Romanoff and begins to scan the door with his watch. Tony notes with a smug little flare of pride that it’s his design.  “No traps as far as I can tell. Not even a keypad, just these plain old locks. Care to take a second look?”

Tony slides on his faceplate and scans the door with his suit. “All clear. Can’t really make out what’s inside, though. Door’s old school – probably got a lead shield – but it’s still effective.” He spares a glance toward the man on the floor, who’s tracking their conversation from underneath a greasy curtain of hair. The man’s eyes widen when he catches Tony’s gaze, and he quickly looks back down at the floor.

Romanoff clears her throat. “Let’s open it. Stark, you want to do the honors?”

“Would I ever,” says Tony. “All right, everyone. Stand back.”

Tony carefully cuts through the locks with his lasers. They fall off one by one, dropping to the ground with satisfying  _clinks_. Tony slides off his faceplate and nudges the door, and it swings inward with a creak. Fluorescent lights overhead reveal a very pale, very thin, and very small man with a shock of blonde hair. He’s naked on his hands and knees, with a spreader bar holding his legs apart. A butt plug has been shoved into his ass. A thick metal collar encircles his neck. It’s attached to the wall by a leash. His hands are cuffed and attached to the collar by another chain. Needle marks litter his skin, standing out most prominently on his upper thigh, and a black plastic muzzle covers his mouth and nose. Like the other man, he doesn’t have any body hair. The blonde man tenses when the door opens, blinking rapidly, but he doesn’t turn his head. Maybe he can’t.

 “What the fuck,” says Tony faintly, and his voice fades as he recalls the chair. He has a good idea of who it might have been for now.

Barton moves forward, but Romanoff grabs his arm. “Wait.” She jerks her head toward the other man, who’s trying and failing to hide his glances into the cell. She orders the man to stand up and go into the cell. The brunette limps forward and drops roughly to his knees, swaying a little as he pats the blonde man’s face.

The blonde relaxes minutely as he spots the man in front of him. He lowers his head as the other man pats frantically at the muzzle around the blonde’s mouth and reaches around unsteadily to undo the strap keeping it in place. The muzzle comes away to reveal a grotesque rubber gag clearly meant to emulate a penis. It’s covered in drool and, oddly, has the design of the American flag. The blonde gulps in air as the other man gently strokes his cheek with a trembling finger and tucks a strand of blonde hair behind his ear. It’s a tender, intimate gesture, contrasting so sharply with the horror-filled environment that Tony feels like a guilty intruder for even witnessing it.

“We need to get them out of here,” says Romanoff, her voice quiet as they watch the dark-haired man fish the butt plug out of the blonde’s ass. The plug also has an American flag design. The blonde can’t hide his wince at the friction.  “Stark, can you get him out of those chains?”

“I can free his limbs, but the collar and cuffs themselves are going to have to wait. They’re too close to his skin.”

Romanoff nods.

Tony clears his throat and steps into the cell. The dark-haired man immediately crouches in front of the blonde protectively, his eyes wild as he takes in Tony’s suit from head to toe as if he’s seeing it for the first time.

“Easy there, Robocop,” says Tony. “I’m just going to cut him loose from the wall, all right? But you need to stand aside for me to do that. It’ll be just like the locks on the door.”

Robocop shoots Tony a wary glance. He crawls to the far corner, eyes fixed on Tony as Tony slides his faceplate on. Tony lets out a sigh and turns his attention to the other man.  “Okay. Hey. Blondie. I’m going to come over and cut the chains. I need you to stay still,” says Tony. Blondie goes rigid as Tony gets closer, breath coming in short little pants. Tony preps his lasers. “This might burn a little,” Tony warns. “Ready?”

Blondie squeezes his eyes shut and grits his teeth. Tony figures that’s as good a sign as any. He carefully cuts the chain attaching his neck to the wall, and then moves behind him to cut through the spreader bar. He aims the lasers as close to Blondie’s ankle as he can so that the weight of the bar won’t drag him down.

 “Hold out your hands and get them steady,” says Tony.

Blondie sits back on his heels. Pink-tinged fluid drips from his ass onto the floor and over his feet, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He holds out his wrists, his eyes still squeezed shut. The chain connecting his hands to the metal collar is short, and so is the chain connecting his wrists together. Tony tamps down his own anxiety and aims his lasers carefully, cutting through the links.

Robocop scrambles over to Blondie as soon as Tony turns off the lasers. He wraps his arm around Blondie protectively as Blondie struggles to find his balance. They make a pathetic pair, the dark-haired man with his protruding ribs and sawed-off metal arm, and the blonde-haired man with his too-pale skin and clinking chains. Blondie straightens his shoulders and turns to face the Avengers as soon as he reaches a standing position. His eyes are bright blue and full of defiance. Robocop – who’s a good six inches taller than Blondie -  eyes the Avengers warily, noting the way Romanoff and Barton are blocking the exit. There’s bruising around Robocop’s left eyelid and scars near his temple. Tony recognizes the pattern of bruises from the metal halos in the other room, and his heart sinks down to his stomach.

“Hold still,” says Romanoff, and the two men just manage to obey. “Stark, scan for trackers.”

The suit beeps as it identifies a tracker embedded in the metal collar around Blondie’s neck. Blondie inhales sharply and jolts, and the other man tightens his arm around Blondie’s shoulder, worry spreading across his face.

“Shit, sorry,” says Tony. He speeds through the rest of the scan, breathing a sigh of relief when he finds no trackers in the cuffs or the remnants of the spreader bar.

“What happened?” asks Romanoff.

“There’s a tracker in the collar, and it emits a shock when it comes in contact with an external pulse. I’d bet that it also shocks him when he gets outside of a certain radius of this base.” It’s a level of cruelty that Tony could never come up with.

“Can you get rid of it?”

“Give me a minute,” says Tony. The quickest solution is also the crudest – cutting the collar off with the suit’s lasers – but Tony can’t figure out a way to do that without serious risk of decapitation or cauterization. There is probably an external control somewhere, maybe hidden in a remote or on a computer, but Tony’s already disabled the hard drives and they don’t have time to hunt. “I can neutralize it for now, and keep it neutralized till we reach the Tower.”

“We’re going to your tower?” asks Barton.

“Oh. Yeah,” says Tony distractedly, as he works on neutralizing the charge. “Banner’s been staying there for a few weeks already. New Avengers headquarters, didn’t you hear? Specialized medical wing with on-call doctors, advanced tech, Hulk-proof rooms, gyms designed to train superheroes to the best of their unique abilities, the best and friendliest security system in the world who sweeps for bugs every 10 seconds, and individual floors for each of us. Oh. Damn. The last one was supposed to be a surprise. Anyway, you’re welcome.”

“Aw, thanks man,” says Barton.

Romanoff’s lips quirked. “I’d say thank you, but I’m afraid your inflated ego would make you explode out of your suit,” she says dryly.

Tony can’t tell whether he should be insulted or not. “Anyway, it’s done. Blondie can leave this base and get scanned without getting shocked. We’ll have to remove the tracker back at the Tower.”

Romanoff lets out a breath. “Thank you. Let’s get to the exit. I’ll lead, you take the rear, and Barton will stay in the middle in case either of them needs help walking. Barton and I will come back for the files after we get them into the jet.”

The group moves awkwardly through the long hallways of the base. Robocop supports Blondie the whole way with his flesh arm wrapped around Blondie’s shoulders. Blondie leans into the touch. His legs seem steadier than Robocop’s, though he’s waddling in a way that indicates obvious post-sex soreness. Cum continues to drip out of his ass, and Robocop’s arm still occasionally gives off sparks. Tony almost mentions it, but he doesn’t want to delay them further. He’s ready to get out of his suit and have a nice long drink to erase the horrors he’s seen today. He just hopes nothing explodes on their way out.

The Quinjet is waiting for them at the doors of the base. Barton and Romanoff must have moved it after they cleared the perimeter. Tony thanks whatever higher power there is for small mercies and steps out of his suit as the Quinjet door closes behind him. Romanoff directs Robocop and Blondie toward the seats in the back as Barton rummages through the cabinets where they keep their gear. Barton passes sets of clothing to the two men and water bottles with a nod and then shuffles off the jet to start collecting files. Romanoff follows him and begins murmuring into her comm.

“Going to Stark Tower,” she tells S.H.I.E.L.D. “Stark’s set up a specialized medical wing for us...no, no major injuries, just, he insisted and wants Banner to…Barton and I will debrief by video. Call Selvig and Foster and get them to come, we need them to look…. Yeah, Stark’s going to work on the data…Barton and I will collect the paper docs…”

Tony tunes her out and watches Robocop and Blondie put on their clothing, ready to lend a hand – or an arm, he thinks darkly – if they need.  They’re unsettlingly quiet as they slip black cargo pants on over their bare legs. Blondie winces a little as the cloth brushes his backside, and Robocop gives him a sharp, assessing look which Blondie pointedly ignores. Blondie slips on a black tank top, which is most certainly Romanoff’s given the size and cut, and then he holds out a worn grey tank top that probably belongs to Barton. Robocop ducks his head obediently, letting Blondie slip the tank over his head and carefully adjust it over the scarred joint where metal meets flesh. Blondie then takes the other man’s hand and squeezes it, his thumb running gentle circles along the palm.

 It’s an oddly domestic scene, and once again Tony feels like an intruder. He looks away for a moment, and when he looks back, Blondie has raised his chin and is gazing at him defiantly. Robocop is unnaturally still, sitting like a statue with his head bowed.

 Tony’s eyes drop to their joined hands.

“Hey, I don’t have a problem with it,” he tells Blondie. “Asexual, pansexual, gay, bi, whatever the spectrum is these days. Just don’t get any animals involved.”

Blondie’s brow furrows in confusion.

“Do either of you talk?”

Blondie’s jaw clenches, and his hand tightens around Robocop’s, tension in every line of his body.

“You don’t have to talk to me,” says Tony before he can stop himself, acutely uncomfortable with their silence. “It’d just be nice to call you something other than Robocop and Blondie in my head. And, you know. We want to help. So. It’d be nice to know if you need anything. Like food. No offense, but you two both look like you’re about half a second away from death.”

“Stark,” Romanoff says behind him, her tone disapproving. Blondie’s head jerks up, and Tony blinks, filing away the reaction for later.

Romanoff clears her throat. “Barton wants to know if you still have Helen Cho’s number.”

“Um…yes,” says Tony, frowning, “but I’m not in the habit of matchmaking doctors and patients, Romanoff, that breaks all sorts of ethics principles, which coming from me, is really saying something, but Bruce has –”

“Stark,” says Romanoff, rolling her eyes. “We’re going to need her medical expertise. And her equipment.” She casts a glance toward Robocop and Blondie, who are both sitting up rigidly now, their faces screwed up in fear.

Tony tries for a reassuring smile, fails, and leans forward. “Hey, there’s no need to be scared. Helen’s a genius. She fixed Barton’s burned arm in about five seconds and it was completely painless. Even Bruce was impressed.” Given the extent of their injuries, he can’t promise that their recoveries are going to be a very pleasant process, so he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “She’s only there to help, I promise.” He turns to Romanoff. “I’ll get in touch with Pepper and Happy and see if they can arrange for her to fly to the Tower.”

Romanoff nods. “Take the co-pilot seat. I’ll stay back here.”

Tony heads up front toward Barton, who’s whistling a tune as he navigates toward New York.

“Hey man,” says Barton. “How are they doing?”

“Clothed, but silent as ever,” Tony says, stretching out in the co-pilot seat.

“Maybe they can’t talk. We don’t know exactly what was done to them.” He lowers his voice, furrowing his brow. “Are you wondering what I’m wondering?”

“No, Robin Hood, please do enlighten me.”

“Where the hell did these guys come from? Our intel said that this base has been abandoned for fifty years. These guys don’t look older than thirty.”

“Well,” says Tony, “There were some decently modern computer servers in the same room I found Robocop. Maybe some other organization used the base for a while and…Robocop and Blondie got left behind when they cleared out.” Left to die, like Tony had left Yinsen in the cave. Tony cleared his throat, blinking quickly to get rid of the pressure in his eyelids. “Hey, didn’t you and Romanoff find files mentioning cryostasis and regeneration?”

Barton nods. “Project Winter Soldier. Looks like HYDRA was trying to recreate Captain America’s super soldier serum even after the Red Skull died.”

 “Again? For fuck’s sake. Nazis couldn’t just give up, huh?”

“I guess not. Most of the files are in Russian and are dated in the 1950’s. They must have had a Russian branch continue the work after Zola got captured. There can’t be that many places that you can get a piece of the Tesseract. Nat thinks that the project might have been the precursor to the Red Room. It kind of makes sense when you think about it.” Barton grimaces. “I hope that whoever had these guys didn’t put them through the same shit Nat went through. I mean, the arm and the sex toys are sick enough.”

“Yeah.” Tony’s stomach roils a little. “Whoever it was, they couldn’t have been gone for long. Blondie was still locked up. He couldn’t have survived for more than a few days without water, and Robocop didn’t look capable of getting him out.”

“Yeah, about that,” says Barton with a frown. “It doesn’t add up. We should have received  _some_  notice that the base might be occupied, especially if whoever was using it only cleared out a couple of days ago. But there were no signs of anyone there,  _anyone_ , until we encountered those two. Like, everything inside was dusty and worn, and the outside hadn’t been touched for weeks.”

“We’re missing a big piece of the puzzle, and I don’t like it,” says Romanoff from behind Tony.

Tony jumps. “You have got to stop doing that,” he mutters angrily. “You know my heart is actually a delicate piece of machinery, right?”

Romanoff raises an eyebrow at him and continues, “Have you called about Cho yet?”

“Not yet, Miss Rushman.”

“Banner knows we’re coming, though,” says Barton.

“Good.” Romanoff’s face tightens for a moment. “They need significant medical care. I’d like for us to get samples of the fluid that’s still on the blond one, too, so that we can do DNA testing and trace who did this to them.” She sighs, suddenly looking very young. “Stark, do you have any vodka in your tower?”

Tony blinks and snorts. “Of course. What kind of question is that?”

“I’d like a drink before I start going through all of those files.”

“JARVIS can help if you want,” Tony says. “He can scan ’em and translate them. It’ll save you a lot of time.”

Romanoff blinks. “That would be helpful. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. What are geniuses for?”

Romanoff rolls her eyes. “I’ll keep an eye on our…guests for the rest of the flight. Try not to let your ego grow anymore; we don’t have that much room in this jet.”

* * *

Two hours later, Barton’s docking the Quinjet on the roof of a very familiar tower. Tony breathes a sigh of relief as he steps into the open air. Pepper strides forward to meet them, and he allows himself to indulge in a hug as he takes stock of his surroundings. Bruce is waiting for them with a couple of wheelchairs.

“Dr. Cho is on her way,” says Pepper, fetching a wheelchair and rolling it toward him. “She’s finishing up a lecture at Stanford and then flying straight out from there. Should be about four hours. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Tony says. “So are the spy kids. But we’ve got a couple of extra guests who…aren’t.”

Pepper’s eyes widen as she looks over his shoulder. Tony turns. Barton’s helping Robocop down the steps of the jet, and Romanoff soon follows with Blondie. Both Robocop and Blondie are squinting and wincing as if the sunlight hurts their eyes. In the light, their injuries are even more horrifying, despite the field dressings that Romanoff’s applied. Robocop's metal arm socket is wrapped with cloth, and it looks like both men's faces have been cleaned.  Their cheekbones stand out sharply in the light and they look more like corpses than living people. Bruce quickly rushes over with the extra wheelchair, and Romanoff and Barton gently help the two men sit down in them. Blondie immediately reaches for Robocop’s hand, then they all collectively make their way inside. Bruce, Romanoff, and Barton ride down to the medical suite together first, leaving Pepper and Tony alone.

“Who are they, Tony?” Pepper asks as they wait for the elevator.

“Don’t know, Pep,” says Tony. “Found them in some creepy base straight out of  _Saw_. It, it was really bad. They haven’t said a single word to us.” He swallows down the lump in his throat, and his voice is quiet as he says, “I’m sure Bruce and Helen can fix them up, but it’ll probably take a while.”

When they reach the medical suite, Robocop and Blondie are huddled together on an exam table, warily eyeing their surroundings as Bruce sets up monitors and machines around them. Romanoff and Barton have taken position at either exit.

Pepper walks towards the two men, and Tony quickly follows.

“Hello,” says Pepper, giving them a warm smile. “My name’s Pepper. You’re in St – Avengers Tower, in the medical suite. Dr. Banner is going to take care of you, and Dr. Cho will join him in a few hours. Please, tell us or JARVIS if you need anything.”

“JARVIS, introduce yourself,” says Tony.

“Hello, sirs,” JARVIS says. Robocop and Blondie jerk and look around in wild, animalistic panic. It would be kind of funny if it weren’t sad.

“Um, JARVIS is my AI system. Artificial intelligence. He monitors the Tower and oversees communications too. So, you let him know if you need anything, or if you need one of us, and he’ll send us a message.”

Robocop and Blondie just stare at Tony and then curl into each other protectively. Blondie’s got sweat on his forehead, and he’s starting to wheeze. It doesn’t sound good. Robocop looks up at them, his face white.

“Whoa there,” says Bruce, stepping out from behind a monitor. “Asthma?”

Robocop jerks his head quickly in a nod, tightening his arm around Blondie.

“Okay. Give me a minute. There has to be a rescue inhaler somewhere around here. One of you, help me look…” He starts rummaging hurriedly through the drawers, a vein on his neck jumping as he takes visibly slow breaths. Romanoff and Barton exchange glances.

“Bruce –” Tony starts, but Pepper interrupts, “Here,” and she turns and holds out a rescue inhaler to Robocop. Robocop snatches it with a shaking hand and then frowns, examining it.

“Place it in his mouth. He has to breathe in while you squeeze the button so he can get the medicine in his lungs. Then he needs to hold his breath for several seconds before breathing out,” says Bruce. Robocop immediately shoves the inhaler in Blondie’s mouth and presses down. Blondie breathes in, holds, and exhales. Afterward, his chest rises and falls steadily.

Robocop drops the inhaler and places his hand on Blondie’s chest, his fingers trembling as they tighten against the tank top. Blondie pats Robocop’s hand gently and turns his face up, nudging Robocop’s chin with the top of his head like a cat. Robocop’s breath hitches for a moment, then he straightens up and turns back toward the rest of the room, placing his arm back around Blondie.

Bruce takes a step forward, and Blondie and Robocop both tense. “I’d like to do an exam and patch up some of your wounds, and then get you cleaned up. I’d also like to get some nutrients in both of you with IV lines and monitor your hearts and your oxygen levels. I’ll ask everyone else to leave and then I’ll get started, but I want to make sure it’s okay with you first.”

Neither Blondie nor Robocop say anything for a long moment, although they both vibrate with tension. Robocop’s shoulders have drawn up to his ears, dragging one of Blondie’s hands upward, and the knuckles of Blondie’s other hand are white as they wrap around his knee. Finally, Blondie squeezes Robocop’s hand once and then gently disentangles his fingers. He lifts both his hands into fists, leaving his thumbs loose, and places them against each other. Then he shakes them twice as he looks up at Bruce uncertainly.  

“JARVIS?” says Tony.

“He used American Sign Language to sign ‘together,’ sir,” JARVIS responds.

“You want to stay together?” Bruce asks, keeping his gaze focused on Blondie.

Blondie nods and does a circle across his chest with his right hand.

“Please,” JARVIS translates.

“Of course you can stay together,” says Bruce. Romanoff frowns and opens her mouth to protest, but Barton stops her with a slight shake of his head.  Bruce turns and looks at everyone else. “Everybody out, please. I will give you a full update when I’m done. Tony, I'd like you to get a closer look at the cuffs later. I’ll ask JARVIS to ping you to come back.”

“Sure thing.” Tony turns toward the door, eager to get out of the room. “Okay, everyone, you heard the good doc. Chop chop. Miss Rushman, come with me, I’ll get you that vodka you requested.”

They file out of the medical suite in a solemn silence. Barton lets out a breath, rubbing at his forehead, and even Romanoff sags for the tiniest moment as the door swings shut behind them. “Fucking hell,” says Barton. “Hey, Stark. If Nat’s getting vodka, can I get some beer and pizza?”

“Sure, we can make that happen. Pepper –”

“I am  _not_  your assistant anymore,” Pepper says in a voice of steel.

“And neither am I, so don’t even try,” says Romanoff dryly. “But I wouldn’t say no to pizza after I get a shower.”

“JARVIS, please order five? – No, make that seven? Eight, Barton, really? – pizzas from the Luino’s down the street.” Romanoff, Barton, and Pepper list their preferred pizza flavors. Romanoff smirks when Barton lists four different ones, and Tony rolls his eyes. “C’mon, spy kids, I’ll show you to your majestic living quarters. Pep, you want to meet us on the common floor? Floor fifty-seven. I think we just finished furnishing it, right?”

“ _I_  just finished furnishing it, yes,” she says with a fond smile, the shadows in her eyes briefly disappearing. “Go and get cleaned up. I’ll see you all soon.”


	2. Bruce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blondie and Robocop receive medical exams from Bruce Banner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been blown away by the response to this fic. Thank you all for the kudos and comments. Please feel free to let me know what you thought of this chapter. I hope you enjoy!

Bruce looks at the two men in front of him and takes a deep, slow breath.

He’s not equipped for this. Sure, he practiced as a physician in India for a while, and he’s learned tons of meditation techniques to try and control the Hulk, but he’s never been trained to handle years and years of trauma. Not unless you count those few days Tony attempted to narrate his entire life story.  (Bruce fell asleep. To this day, it remains the best series of naps he’s ever had.) 

But the two men are watching him, trying to sit up straight and tall despite the exhaustion in their limbs, and right now, he’s all they’ve got.

He runs through Natasha’s briefing in his head: "Codenames Robocop and Blondie, until we can figure out what they want to be called. Sexual, physical, mental abuse, probably for years. They can understand us, but they can’t or won’t speak. They do respond, so watch their faces and body language. Use direct commands and simple yes/no questions. Keep it clinical – we’ll find out what they know later. And…" Natasha had paused here, dropped all pretenses, and looked at him solemnly. They’ll be overwhelmed, so don’t give them too many choices, but let them have some choices if you can. Let them have autonomy. They’ve been deprived of it for so long.

“Okay,” he says, drawing up every ounce of calm he possesses. “I don’t know much sign language, but I want you to be able to communicate with me at any point. Is it okay if JARVIS continues to translate what you sign?”

Blondie furrows his brow and looks at Bruce with piercing bright blue eyes. The Hulk grumbles at the examination, but otherwise stays quiet, so Bruce keeps eye contact and keeps his body language nonthreatening and open. Finally, Blondie nods, and Robocop grudgingly follows suit.

“Okay.” Bruce takes a deep breath. “Would one of you like to go first?”

Robocop’s eyes darken dangerously, and he bares his teeth like a feral animal. The Hulk stirs.  Bruce quickly shifts his gaze to the unhooked monitors, calming himself. He swallows, taking in another slow breath, in and out. “Okay, I’m sorry. I’m not sure what I did wrong. I don’t want to do anything without your permission.”

In his peripheral vision, Blondie gingerly slides off the exam table. Bruce turns to look at him, and Blondie looks right back, his jaw clenched.

“You first?” asks Bruce.

Blondie nods. Then, holding Bruce’s gaze, he slips off his clothes and drops to his knees. Robocop draws in a stuttered breath, almost a whimper, but doesn’t move.  

“Whoa, you don’t need to do that,” says Bruce, trying not to let alarm creep into his voice. Blondie’s fists clench at his sides, but he doesn’t get up. Bruce squats down in front of Blondie, carefully keeping his eyes on the man’s face. “We can do the exam on the floor, but it’ll probably be more comfortable up on the table. I’m not going to tell you it’ll be easy or even quick, but I promise I’ll try to make it as painless as possible.” He tentatively holds out a hand. “Can I help you back up? Your friend can stay there with you. There should be enough room.”

Blondie’s eyes bore into Bruce’s as he considers the offer. After a long silence, he slides his bony fingers into Bruce’s palm. He settles onto the exam table, still naked except for the cuffs and collar. Robocop is sitting cross-legged at the head of the table against the wall, and Blondie grasps his hand before looking expectantly at Bruce.

“Okay,” says Bruce. “Let’s start by getting an IV in you. Actually, I’d like to get one in both of you, if that’s okay?” He glances at Robocop, who still looks like a cornered animal, but with less feral rage. Robocop gives the tiniest nod and reluctantly lets go of Blondie’s hand, shoving his flesh arm toward Bruce. While it’s too easy to find both Blondie’s veins against his thin, pale skin, Robocop’s arm has so many faded scars that Bruce actually has to hunt for a good spot. Neither of them even flinches when the needle goes in.

It’s a little awkward examining Blondie with two IV stands so close by, but Bruce pushes aside his discomfort and carries on. He pulls on a pair of gloves and quietly, clinically narrates his actions, checking with Blondie before he does each one. Blondie responds with small, quick nods, his expression stoic. First comes a rectal exam, to make sure there’s no permanent damage and to get DNA samples from the dried semen and blood on him. Blondie starts to get on his hands and knees for that. Robocop’s face quickly turns murderous, so Bruce quickly stops Blondie and asks him to lay down on his side and pull his feet up to his chest. To Bruce’s surprise, there are no anal or rectal tears, and Blondie’s prostate feels normal.  

More concerning are the needle marks on Blondie’s thighs. They travel upward in a messy, haphazard trail from just above his knees to worryingly close to his testicles, and there’s swelling around a few of them that might indicate internal bleeding. Bruce wonders what the hell was being done to him. Fortunately, Blondie’s penis and testicles look uninjured, though they too are covered with gritty dried semen.

Bruce asks Blondie to put his pants on, then he continues with an upper body exam. Blondie’s ribs are bruised and protrude much too prominently, but asthma attack aside, he’s breathing normally and nothing looks broken. His heart has a slight arrhythmia but it’s nothing life-threatening. Bruce pauses while Blondie puts his – Natasha’s -  tank top back on, and then he does a quick check of Blondie’s eyes, mouth, nose, throat, and skull. He has sunken cheeks, chapping at the corners of his lips, and semen streaked in his hair, but he still has all his teeth, none of which appear to have issues, and his eyes are clear and blue.

Besides the disturbing absence of hair on his body, the needle marks on his thigh, and the general look of starvation, only two other things really stand out. The first is a series of organized, faded puncture scars along both biceps, as if he’d been injected with several needles at once in the past; and the second is a long, thin scar stretching across his skull right above his hairline. Bruce might have missed both if he weren’t looking closely; they’re nearly invisible underneath the grime.

“Almost done,” says Bruce. “I’m going to look at the cuffs and collar next.”

The collar is made of a smooth, thick metal, and it has no visible latches or screws. It fits snugly on Blondie’s neck, almost flush with his skin. The cuffs tell a similar story: they almost look like they’re glued onto his skin. A crude D-link has been welded onto each cuff and onto the collar. Some look half-melted. Tony must have sheared them off in the base.

“These are really unusual. Do you know how they got these onto you?”

Blondie shakes his head.

“Do you know what they’re made of?”

Blondie’s face darkens with anger. He clenches his fists at his sides and looks away. Robocop shifts and glares at Bruce from the corner of the bed.

“I’m sorry,” says Bruce. “I didn’t mean to make you upset. I just thought, if we could figure out what they’re made of, we’d have an easier time getting them off.”

Blondie’s shoulders relax a fraction. He brings his hands to his lap, stares at them for a moment, then takes a deep breath and signs, _“S-H-I-E-L-D_.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D.?” Bruce’s voice rises. “S.H.I.E.L.D. put these on you?”

Blondie nods, then frowns and shakes his head. “ _Shield_ ,” he signs again. “ _Me_.” He touches the metal.

“What? I’m sorry, I – I don’t understand.”

Blondie tilts his head and studies Bruce for a minute, and then brushes his fingers against the metal again. _“Shield._ ” He points to himself, then he crosses his fingers together in front of his chest and moves them in a circle. _“America.”_

“They’re American made? By S.H.I.E.L.D?”

Blondie shakes his head, frustration twisting his mouth. He lifts his hands again, but in a sudden flash of movement, Robocop’s arm darts out and knocks Blondie’s wrist down. Robocop’s shaking his head frantically, and his blue eyes are nearly black with terror. Blondie huffs and turns to glare at Robocop, but his expression quickly softens. Blondie grasps Robocop’s hand and squeezes it apologetically, circling his thumb in the space between Robocop’s thumb and index finger.

Bruce clears his throat. “I’m sorry.  You don’t have to tell me anything about them. Would it be okay if Tony asks JARVIS to scan the metal? He can start working on a way to get them off.”

Blondie hesitates for a fraction of a second, then nods.

Bruce finishes the exam by taking a few blood samples from Blondie, and from Robocop as well, since he already has the supplies out. “When Dr. Cho comes, she’ll want to do some specialized scans so that we can make sure there’s no internal damage in either of you. She’ll check with you beforehand to see if you’re okay with it.”

Blondie blinks slowly, holding still as Bruce presses gauze to the blood draw site. He seems tired. He presses two fingers to his chin, keeping his thumb outward, and pulls them away.

Bruce recognizes that sign. “You’re welcome,” he says, turning to Robocop. “I meant to ask earlier. While Tony’s here, can he get a scan of your arm? He can fix some of those torn up wires and start working on a replacement prosthetic. Only if you want him to, of course.”

Robocop still looks scared, but he ducks his head and nods.

Bruce frowns. “Okay. If you change your mind, you can let us know, too. Are you ready for your exam?”

The color drains out of Robocop’s face, and he starts to shake. His eyes drop to the floor. Blondie’s brow furrows and he grabs Robocop’s hand. Robocop startles, but Blondie is persistent. He places his hand on Robocop’s chest and begins rubbing in a circle, ducking his head to meet Robocop’s gaze. Robocop gasps once, swallows, and then slowly relaxes, squeezing Blondie’s hand back.

Bruce inhales slowly and counts his breaths, turning away for a moment to give them privacy. A shuffling noise draws his attention back. Blondie and Robocop are switching positions, tangling their IV lines in the process. Blondie sits against the wall at the head of the exam table, pulling his knees up to his chest like a child. Robocop lists to the side slightly as he sits in the center of the exam table, wrapping his flesh hand around Blondie’s cuffed ankle like he needs a grounding touch.

Bruce quietly adjusts the IV stands as Blondie helps Robocop peel off his clothing and lie down with his back to Bruce. Robocop trembles minutely as Bruce approaches.

 “Okay, I’m going to do the exam in the same order as I did for your friend,” says Bruce, and gives a brief overview of the steps again. He waits for Robocop’s nod, then proceeds. Robocop lets out a small, quickly stifled gasp as Bruce examines his anus. There aren’t any stains or fluids on his skin, but there is faded scarring in between his cheeks indicating numerous old tears and what look like…burns? Bruce pushes down his ever-growing rage and forces himself to continue. Robocop’s prostate feels normal, at least, and his genitals don’t have any surface damage. Wiry muscle makes up his legs, and his knees are swollen, like he spends most of his time on them instead of his feet.

Bruce had gotten a brief look at the arm when they were coming in, but it’s still a shock to see up close. The metal arm makes up Robocop’s entire shoulder and bicep and part of his collarbone. Deep bruises have bloomed on his back where the metal is welded into his bony spine. Four deep scars stretch across his left pectoral muscle, and the skin around the arm is a continuous mass of burns. It’s a startling contrast to the rest of his upper body, which is basically skin stretched over a minimal layer of muscle and bone. It’s a miracle that the arm hasn’t already torn off on its own.

“All right. You can go ahead and put your shirt back on.”

Robocop keeps staring straight ahead. Blondie gently runs a hand up and down Robocop’s flesh arm, then takes Robocop’s hand and rubs his thumb gently against Robocop’s knuckles, but Robocop doesn’t blink for a full minute.  

A sharp groan is the only warning they get before Robocop’s eyes roll in the back of his head and his limbs start jerking wildly.

“Shit,” Bruce whispers, and he rushes over. He raises his voice over the sound of Robocop’s loud, choked gasps. “Help me lay him on his side - grab that pillow and put it underneath his head, okay, yes, good. JARVIS, please note the time the seizure started and alert me when it’s been five minutes.”

The seizure thankfully only lasts for two minutes, but it’s still two minutes too long, two minutes of Blondie signing “Please, please,” with clenched fists over and over, terrified for the first time since Bruce has met him. All they can do is wait until Robocop moans softly and stills. He stares outward, unseeing, with dilated pupils, and drool drips out of the corner of his mouth. Blondie inches forward and gently wipes it off, then starts to stroke Robocop’s hair.

Bruce asks quietly, “Can you hear me? Blink once for yes.”

It takes a full minute, but finally Robocop blinks once.

“Okay. You’re in the medical wing of Avengers Tower. Your friend, the blonde one, is behind you. I’m Bruce Banner, I’ve been examining you for injuries. Do you remember me? Blink once for yes, twice for no.”

One blink. 

“You just had a seizure. That’s when your brain signals get mixed up and your body loses control. Has this happened before? Once for yes, twice for no.”

Robocop’s face screws up in pain. He blinks once, and then twice, then once. His face gets paler each time.

“That’s okay. It’s okay if you don’t know. Can I check you for additional injuries?”

Robocop blinks once, then winces and closes his eyes. Blondie stays close as Bruce gently feels around Robocop’s head. Like Blondie, Robocop has a long, thin scar across his hairline. There’s also an old, raised scar that spans from his left temple to behind his left ear, and faded bruises along his left forehead, left eyelid, and right cheekbone. Robocop’s hair is long and greasy, but Bruce doesn’t find any untoward substances in it. His teeth are all present and show no signs of decay.

Bruce does a quick check of Robocop’s heart and lungs – surprisingly, both sound completely normal – and notes that Robocop also doesn’t have any body hair. Then he digs up a pack of unscented, hypoallergenic wet wipes, a roll of paper towels, and two bottles of water with easy-to-open caps. He places everything on the edge of the exam table. Surprise, chased by wariness, flashes across Blondie’s face.

“These are for you. It’s about time you both had a chance to clean up. Feel free to use the sink, too.” He points to the little sink set in the wall, a couple feet away from the bed. “We can set up baths for both of you after you’ve both regained some strength. I’m going to connect the monitors and then ask Tony to come up, if that’s okay with both of you?” He gets a blink and a nod in response. Bruce makes quick work of the vital signs monitors. They’re low-tech compared to Tony’s usual flair, but Natasha had insisted on the least amount of technology and Tony had, for once, seemed too distracted to argue. After examining Robocop and Blondie, Bruce thinks he understands why.

Bruce doesn’t look back as the door to the medical suite slowly swings shut behind him. He sighs as he steps into the lab next door, makes sure the door is closed, and then says, “JARVIS, do you have visual and audio on our patients?”

“Yes, Dr. Banner,” says JARVIS. “I am monitoring both of them, along with their vital signs. Would you like me to show you?”

“Only if they’re in distress or danger, please. I want to give them some privacy.”

“Of course, sir.”

Bruce sorts out the samples and spends some time setting up tests: complete blood counts for both Robocop and Blondie, along with a host of other tests to look at their cholesterol, vitamin, glucose, hormone levels, among other things. He also sets up genetic testing for the samples taken from Blondie’s anus and both Robocop and Blondie’s blood. The lab work is familiar and soothing, and it calms Bruce as he processes what he’s learned from the examinations. He’s just finished washing his hands when JARVIS says, “Dr. Banner, Sir has asked me to contact you. Would you like to speak to him?”

“Sure, JARVIS. Put him through.”

A few minutes later, a screen pops up in the center of the room. “Green Giant!” Tony shouts, waving a half-eaten piece of pineapple and ham pizza at the screen. “Look. We’re having a pizza party. You want us to save you some? Better say yes fast before Barton eats it all.”

“Not right now,” says Bruce. “Have you been drinking?”

“No,” says Tony, petulantly. “I’ve been dying to pour myself some of the good scotch that Loki almost destroyed, but I don’t drink on the job. I thought you might need me.”

“Thanks, Tony. Yeah, I’d like you to come down and get a scan of the cuffs and collar on Blondie, and of Robocop’s arm, so we can start figuring out what they’re made of and what we can do about them. Both of them gave their permission.”

Tony turns serious at once. “How are they?” He steps back, letting Natasha and Clint into the frame. All three of them have cleaned up and are wearing casual clothing.

“Doing better now, I think. I left them alone to clean up. They’re severely malnourished; we’ll need to come up with a long-term plan for their nutrition. I gave them the usual IV mixture to start with. Robocop had a seizure that lasted about two minutes. He couldn’t remember if he’d had them before. He seems to have more lasting physical injuries than Blondie. He’s been sexually abused too, like Blondie, and he’s scared to death. Blondie’s coping a lot better with all of this, at least on the surface. Otherwise – well – we won’t know for sure till we run more tests, but it’s going to be a long recovery for them both.” Bruce quickly lists the other things he saw on examination, along with the tests he’s set up, and adds, “I’d really like to get MRIs for them both, especially after the seizure, but it’s not possible due to the metal. Maybe Helen will have some ideas. We can do an ultrasound in the meantime.”

“Have they spoken at all?” asks Natasha.

Bruce shakes his head. “Blondie knows some sign language, like you saw. Please, thank you,…oh, and he also said something about the cuffs.” Bruce relays the conversation he had with Blondie and shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I really tried to put it together, but I couldn’t get it. I don’t think he was talking about S.H.I.E.L.D., the organization, but nothing else made sense.”

“America, shield, and something metal? There’s an obvious association there.” Tony opens his arms wide and looks around. “Come on.  Anyone? Bueller? Bueller?”

“Please enlighten us,” says Natasha dryly.

“Captain America’s shield!” Tony waves his hands. “Come on, I can’t be the only person in this room who knew the answer.”

“That doesn’t explain what Blondie was saying about the cuffs,” Natasha replies.

“No, it doesn’t. The shield is in the Smithsonian, right, Pep? For that big exhibit they put up?” said Tony.

“Yes, we lent it to them from your father’s personal archives.” Pepper crouches down into the frame and waves. “Hello, Bruce.”

“Hello, Pepper.”   

“Aw, guys. Aren’t you forgetting that we found Blondie with those weird United States flag-themed sex toys? Maybe he’s referring to _himself_.” Clint frowns and scratches his head. “You know, he does kind of look like Captain America before the serum.”

“But Captain America is dead,” says Tony.

“We know Hydra was trying to recreate the super soldier serum, and they weren’t the only ones. Maybe whoever had these guys ventured into cloning, too,” says Natasha.

Tony frowns. “JARVIS, how close are you to scanning all that paper? Is there anything about cloning in there?”

“About 80% of the files have been uploaded into your system, sir,” says JARVIS. “However, you may begin to query the data if you wish. I have not yet found any mentions of cloning.”

Natasha and Clint exchange a grim glance. “Let’s look for anything that affects their medical care first, then anything that can tell us about their identity,” says Natasha. “After that, we can strategize more about figuring out what they know.”

“JARVIS, did you hear that?”

“Yes, sir. I will begin the search now.”

“Speaking of medical,” says Pepper, briskly, all business, “What do our patients need? I’ve gotten basic underwear, soft pants and shirts, baby shampoo and soaps, and some basic toiletries. All hypoallergenic and scent-free. Anything else?”

“Hey, have we tried to ask them to write anything yet? Or even draw anything? Maybe we should get them some blank notebooks and pencils. Their voices might not work, but it doesn’t mean they can’t communicate some other way beyond sign language,” says Clint, looking thoughtful.

“That’s a good idea,” says Bruce.

“After you and Tony are done, we should let them rest until Dr. Cho arrives. You’ve all had a chance to take a break. They deserve one too,” says Pepper.

“You’re right. Sleep will help their recovery, too.”

“And help them trust you,” Natasha murmurs.  

“Thank you, Bruce. Tony will join you in just a second.” Pepper smiles at him, and the screen disappears.

* * *

When Bruce and Tony cautiously re-enter the medical suite, Blondie and Robocop are curled up on the exam table together like Greek youths in some Renaissance painting. Robocop is sitting up against the wall, still shirtless, and Blondie is nestled right in between his legs, his back pressed to Robocop’s chest and his head underneath Robocop’s chin. In Robocop’s hand is a half-empty, open water bottle, which he’s holding up to Blondie’s lips. Blondie obediently takes a sip, and Robocop follows suit. The other water bottle lies empty at the end of the bed. Both men look much cleaner, and their skin is startlingly pale in the fluorescent light.

Bruce pushes down his reflexive embarrassment at catching them in such an intimate position, steps discreetly on Tony’s foot (“Ow! I wasn’t going to say anything,” Tony grumbles), and waves in the general direction of the bed.  “Hey guys, I hope you’re feeling better. I’ve brought Tony back.”

“Don’t know if we’ve been properly introduced. Tony Stark, also known as Iron Man. This is my tower. You ready to get those cuffs scanned, Blondie?”

Blondie carefully takes the water bottle and caps it, setting it against the wall. He turns and studies Tony with a bright blue gaze. His brow furrows deeply, as if he’s trying to figure something out. Tony shifts uncomfortably under the scrutiny. “I know, I know. I’m really handsome. Take a gander. Hate to break your heart, but I’m in a committed relationship right now, and hopefully forever.”

The corners of Blondie’s mouth twitch upwards like he’s about to laugh. He lightly taps Robocop’s kneecap. Robocop makes a hilarious disgruntled face and pulls his legs out of the way so that Blondie can shuffle to the edge of the table. Blondie’s legs dangle off the edge as he holds out his wrists and raises his eyebrows at Tony.

Tony looks taken aback. “Okay then.” He approaches Blondie slowly, then carefully takes one of Blondie’s wrists, peering at the cuff. He shows Blondie a small device that looks like a cross between a cigarette lighter and a pen.  “So, I have a little laser here that connects to JARVIS. When I move it around the metal, it’ll create a 3D scan of the metal in the air, and it’ll also analyze the metal, see what it’s made of, what its weaknesses are, things like that. It won’t hurt. You ready?”

Blondie grits his teeth and nods.

“Okay, here goes.”

A faint humming noise emits from the scanner, and Blondie’s eyes widen as the hologram appears in front of his eyes. Even Robocop leans forward from the wall to watch, fascinated. Soon, five blue mesh loops are floating in the air, numbers appearing at their side.

“JARVIS? What are these suckers made of?”

“The metal is a vibranium-titanium alloy, sir.”

“Oh, look at that, my suspicion was right,” mutters Tony, rotating the holograms and reading the breakdown of the molecular components. “Actually, wow. That is a lot more vibranium than I was expecting. I thought Dad had used most of the world’s supply for Cap’s shield? JARVIS, start a search on legal and not-so-legal sources of vibranium, please, and cross-reference it with any activity near the base.”

“Yes, sir. Shall I alert Agents Romanoff and Barton of the search?”

“Sure, yeah, tell the spy kids. Hey Blondie, can you tell us anything about these?”

Blondie averts his eyes and presses his lips together.

“I’m going to take that as a no,” says Tony, completely missing Robocop’s glare directed at the back of his head. He points at a concentrated mesh point toward the center of the biggest loops. “Look here. That’s the tracker. It’s still neutralized, and while you’re here in the Tower no signals will be able to affect it. Nothing in, nothing out. No surprise shocks.”

Bruce frowns and peers at the hologram. “Look, it’s a little bit concave right there. The tracker’s right in the middle of that dip.”

“Oh, yeah, weird. What’s that about?”

The rage rises in Bruce as soon as the realization dawns on him. “The Adam’s apple. It’s right up against the larynx. I knew the collar was tight, but…”

Blondie tenses and ducks his head as Bruce and Tony turn to look at him at the same time.

“Well, damn,” says Tony softly. “Let me guess. A shock to your throat every time you spoke? Or made any noise?”

Blondie clenches his jaw and nods. Robocop makes a soft, distressed noise and grasps Blondie’s hand.

“I’m sorry. That’s awful,” says Bruce.

Tony clears his throat and turns to fiddle with the holograms. He looks shaken. “We’re going to get them off. We’ll find a way.” He swipes the holograms away, swiping at his eyes. “So, Robocop. You’re next. We’re going to get a look at the arm. Ready?”

Fear flickers across Robocop’s face as he moves within reach, but he nods anyway.

“Are you sure?” says Tony. “I can come back –”

Robocop’s eyes widen, and he nods frantically. He angles his shoulder toward Tony and fixes his eyes on the wall, a mask of blankness settling over his face. Bruce really hopes that he isn’t having another seizure. Bruce gently removes the cloth covering up the exposed wires, and the room is quiet as a model of the arm forms in the air. Robocop tenses as Tony moves around to scan his back, but he doesn’t turn to look. Blondie, however, tracks all of Tony’s movements with a sharp gaze, rubbing his thumb across Robocop’s knuckles the whole time.

The arm, it turns out, does not contain vibranium. It’s a titanium alloy with several underlying electrical components, a fact that momentarily makes Tony’s eyes light up, until he realizes that the wires have taken the place of Robocop’s nerves. While the arm itself is an amazing piece of advanced technology, its attachments to the body are not. Bruce forcefully pushes down the Hulk as he imagines the crude surgeries Robocop must have undergone.

“We can do a better one,” Tony declares. “Helen and Bruce and I. We can make you a better arm, one that won’t kill you slowly because it’s too heavy.”

Robocop’s shoulders slump, and he lets his head drop, his hair curtaining his face. Blondie shifts and nudges his head under Robocop’s chin, petting his chest gently.

“Um,” says Tony, sending Bruce an alarmed glance. It clearly isn't the response he was expecting.

Blondie’s eyes dart up. _“Thank you_ ,” he signs again, and then he turns his attention back to Robocop.

It’s a clear dismissal. Bruce checks the monitors – their vital signs look good – and grabs the bag of supplies near the door and places it on the exam table. “Okay. We brought some things for you. Soft clothing, blankets, toiletries…oh, and some notebooks and pencils, if you find it easier to write anything down. Go ahead and rest if you can. I’ll come and get you in a few hours when Dr. Cho is here. JARVIS will alert us if either of you is in distress or needs immediate medical attention, or if you enter a place you’re not supposed to, but otherwise, we’ll leave you alone. You deserve your privacy.”

Tony says, “I’ll keep the floor empty, so you guys can wander the halls if you feel up to it. The lab’s next door – you can’t get into that – but you can explore the other exam rooms. I think one of them has a bigger bed that I put in place for Thor. Just make sure to take your monitors and IVs with you. Don’t disconnect anything. You need anything, tell JARVIS – he can interpret sign language, or you can write it down and wave it up toward the ceiling.”

Blondie pauses and nods to show that he’s listening, but he doesn’t stop what he’s doing.

“Okay. Get some rest,” says Bruce, and he follows Tony out. A heavy silence presses on them as the elevator takes them back up to the common floor.


	3. Natasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha and Clint go through files and make some unpleasant discoveries about Blondie and Robocop's treatment. After debriefing together, the team comes to a horrifying conclusion.

Natasha is exhausted.

After a short, restless attempt to sleep off the pizza and vodka, she had met Clint in the specially designated Avengers conference room to start going through files from the base. The first batch of files, those most relevant to medical care, had showed them what they expected. There were detailed schematics of Robocop’s missing metal arm in its various iterations, diagrams showing where and how the arm was attached, clinical photographs of Robocop’s back and shoulder documenting his surgical recoveries, and a long list of protocols on how to maintain the arm and its attachments. Blondie had not been overlooked, though the files on him – which detailed experiments involving numerous measurements of blood levels - were so heavily redacted that they were practically unreadable.

Each man also appeared to have received a frontal lobectomy, which according to written reports were successful in “increasing compliance.” The rest of these reports, too, were redacted. Beyond a few diagrams detailing the surgical procedure – which matched the hairline scars Bruce reported seeing in his exam - there were no photographs showing either the operation or the aftermath.  There were, however, extensive protocols on how to use a so-called “memory suppression machine,” or the contraption with the metal halos they’d seen at the base, to deliver electrical shocks to the brain and “temporarily induce obedience.”  Following those files were detailed manuals on hygiene (cold hosedowns), nutrition (intravenous or through a gastrointestinal tube), and exercise (stress positions, fitness tests) for “Subject 1” (Robocop) and “Subject 2” (Blondie) dating back to 2004.

Clint had let out a whistle at that. “Ten years in custody of these sickos? Damn.”

"Which sickos?" said Natasha dryly, flipping through the pages in the air. Double-spaced, 12-point Times New Roman font stared back at her. “Anything that could possibly be a signature or logo has been redacted, and so have most of the dates.” She sighed. “At least we know they were typed on a word processor and that they’re in English. Whoever had custody was probably based in the US, the UK, or another developed English-speaking country. JARVIS, could you do a search and give us a rough timeline of when any of the surgical procedures or other technology in the files might have become available?”

“Certainly, Agent Romanoff.”

They’d packaged up the information and sent it off to Stark, Banner, and Cho, the last of which had arrived at the Tower and had begun doing scans on Robocop and Blondie.

It’s been almost five hours since they started. Natasha sighs and turns, bringing herself back to the present, and then blinks hard. Hovering above the conference table are various images of abuse. Clint is standing and swiping through the photographs, his mouth drawn in a tight line. Natasha breathes in and out slowly, blanketing herself with a layer of calm as she takes them in:

Blondie, crouched in what looks like a dog kennel suspended in the air, staring down in horror at Robocop, who’s strapped into that old, cracked leather chair from the base. Robocop’s face is shadowed, but his body is contorted in agony. The ribbed dildo they’d seen at the base is just visible between his ass cheeks.

Robocop on his stomach, naked and tied to a metal table, his face wet with tears, his grey-blue eyes dilated with fear and staring right into the lens. His thighs are streaked with blood. A bright light illuminates a vivid red star painted on the bicep of his metal arm.

Blondie on his knees, his head on the ground and his ass in the air, hands spreading his cheeks wide and showing his hole to the camera. A blue butt plug with a white star is just barely visible. Across from him, Robocop kneels with his hands behind his back, another hand in frame holding a gun to his head.

Robocop standing naked with his wrists chained above his head, a ball gag in his mouth and a blindfold covering his eyes. A gloved hand holds a live stun baton to his chest, and his muscles are visibly seizing. In the bottom corner of the picture, barely in frame, a collared Blondie strains against a leash, his eyes clouded by tears.

Blondie strapped down in an eerie metal sarcophagus, limp and unconscious, bleeding from hundreds of puncture marks all over his body. Robocop, his face hidden by greasy brown hair, is kneeling next to Blondie and gripping his hand. His metal arm is restrained behind his back with a thick cuff attached to a belt around his waist, and there are whip marks on his ass.

Several similar photos follow. None of them are dated, but their quality indicate that they were taken with a high-quality modern digital camera. What strikes Natasha most is their odd artistry: in most of the photos, both Robocop or Blondie are in frame and positioned so that only one of their faces is illuminated. It’s disturbing and mesmerizing all at once, and it chills Natasha to the bone.

She points it out to Clint, who blanches. His knuckles are white as he grips the back of a chair. “There’s another pattern I’ve noticed,” he says slowly. “Leverage. They were probably being leveraged against each other. You know, ‘Do this, or the other gets hurt.’”

 “It would be easy to exploit how protective they are of each other,” says Natasha.

“It seems like Robocop got the brunt of the punishment,” says Clint, frowning at the pictures, “which means Blondie might have been the more resistant one.”

 “And seeing Robocop in pain might have hurt Blondie more than anything they tried to do to Blondie directly. It would have been a perfect way to manipulate Blondie into doing what they wanted.”

 Clint releases the chair, then turns away and exhales slowly. “Damn.” He shakes his head. “Those two are going to have to have a shitload of therapy. We’ll have to be careful not to manipulate them in the same way.”

That hasn’t even occurred to Natasha, but she supposes that’s the difference between her and Clint. She’s trying to make up for her past, erase all the red from her ledger, but sometimes S.H.I.E.L.D. asks her to do things that make it difficult to see other people as humans instead of targets.

“Hey, JARVIS,” says Clint. “What else have we got in those files? I know there are all those Russian HYDRA files we haven’t really looked through yet, but is there anything else that might be related to Blondie or Robocop?”

“There are some old photographs and files which may be of interest,” says JARVIS. “I will pull them up here.”

The next photo is creased and faded, much older than the others. In it, Robocop is locked inside of a frosted metal tube, looking, for all intents and purposes, dead. On the margin there’s a faded, smudged caption in Russian, which Natasha easily deciphers.

_March 23, 1945._

Startled, she pulls the photograph closer to herself and zooms in with her fingers.

“What is it?” Clint asks.

“Look,” Natasha says, and she points to the date, her mind racing. “JARVIS, can you pull up those HYDRA files on cryostasis?”

 “Yes, Agent Romanoff.”

Those files mostly turn out to be diagrams of a cryostasis chamber, the same long tube that they saw at the base, and presumably the same tube in the photograph. There are notes on how to use the Tesseract energy to power it, which again brings up the question of where HYDRA got a piece of the Tesseract after World War II. There are also some heavily redacted accounts of testing the chamber’s effectiveness. Nevertheless, the files turn out to be a goldmine of intelligence for three reasons: all the pages are stamped with the bright red HYDRA logo; all of them have a header titled “Project Winter Soldier”; all the notes on functional testing of the cryostasis chamber mention the same human subject, distinguishable by his prosthetic metal arm.

In addition to connecting Robocop to the Winter Soldier project, there’s a rough timeline on when Robocop – or the Winter Soldier - was in and out of cryostasis. The first date they have is 1950, where Robocop was placed in the cryostasis chamber after “successful installment of the prosthesis.” He was then taken out of cryostasis for “prosthesis management” and “compliance conditioning” at intermittent times from 1950 to 1964. Natasha doesn’t need to see files to know what that conditioning probably entailed. In 1964, Robocop was taken out of cryostasis for one full year for “novel experimental procedures” (details redacted), then placed back into it for five years. In 1970, he was taken out for “restorative maintenance and conditioning,” and then again every five years until 1990.

Natasha winces as she looks through the photographs documenting the “thawing protocol,” in which Robocop changes from a nearly solid block of ice to a live, breathing body. She recognizes the dull, lifeless gaze pointed toward the camera. “Ready to comply,” she whispers in Russian, and briefly, the shadow of the Red Room dims the world around her.

The timeline stops at December 31, 1991: “Suggest that Winter Soldier be terminated from service after extreme breakdown of conditioning from previous incident this month. Awaiting confirmation from [REDACTED].”

“Huh,” says Clint. “Previous incident? JARVIS, are there references to other events in December 1991?”

JARVIS says, “Not in the files, Agent Barton. However, Sir’s father and mother died on December 16, 1991. It was a major event which received much international media attention.”

A sense of foreboding washes over the room. There’s something in the back of Natasha’s mind, some long-buried memory that wants to be unearthed. She pushes it back down.

“Well,” says Clint, frowning, “that was by car accident, right?”

“Yes, Agent Barton. According to all reports it was a car accident due to intoxication.”

 “Probably just a coincidence, then,” says Clint.

Natasha ignores the unease pooling in her stomach and rolls her neck, trying to release the tension from her shoulders. “Let’s ask JARVIS if he can cross-reference the files with anything in the S.H.I.E.L.D. archives.” She smirks at Clint’s raised eyebrow. “Stark has had access to the servers since he hacked them during the Chitauri incident. It’s a small price to pay for having his on-call help. I think Fury agrees.”

 “I guess that’s fair,” says Clint.

“Excuse me, Agent Barton, Agent Romanoff. Sir has asked whether you would be available to meet with him, Dr. Cho, and Dr. Banner. They would like to discuss some important findings.”

“It is about time to debrief with them,” says Natasha. She rubs at her temples to stave off a headache. “JARVIS, can you tell them to join us up here? We’ve got a lot talk about.”

* * *

“So let me get this straight,” says Stark, popping a blueberry into his mouth. “Robocop, or the first and only subject of HYDRA’s super-serum Winter Soldier project, was in HYDRA custody for decades from 1950 to late 1991. But he was kept frozen, so he’s probably not that much older than whatever age he was in 1950. The next dated mention we get of him – and the first mention of Blondie – is in 2004. Over the past ten years, they’ve both had nonconsensual brain surgery, experienced a truckload of torture, and unwillingly served as experimental human subjects, sex slaves, and models for some pervert’s exploration into erotic photography. Does that about sum it up?”

“Yes,” says Natasha. “Any questions?”

“Um, yes,” Stark says. “What happened between 1991 and 2004? Is there anything about that? J?”

“I’m afraid not, sir,” says JARVIS.

“Okay,” says Stark, rubbing his chin. “We know Robocop survived that time period because he shows back up again in 2004. Could he have survived being frozen that long? Bruce, Helen, help me out here, I don’t have that kind of PhD.”

“Given that he survived a few five-year periods in it, it’s probable he could have survived a ten-year period too,” says Cho.

“Yeah,” says Banner, scratching his head. “It seems like the cryostasis chamber was pretty effective, even though it was developed in the 1950’s. And with the Tesseract as its power source…well, even today, we don’t know exactly what the Tesseract’s capable of. As a power source it’s probably leagues more efficient than any material we could find on Earth.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D already sent in a team with Erik Selvig to examine the chamber at the base,” says Natasha. “We can ask them what they found.”

“Spy Kids, you got anything else to tell us?” asks Stark.

“Nope,” says Clint, and he waves his coffee cup vaguely at Stark in a ‘go ahead’ gesture.

Stark proceeds to look at Banner, and Banner stands and clears his throat. “Helen, Tony, and I were able to figure out a way to do some scans of Blondie and Robocop, and we’ve been going over the results of those, as well as the blood work I did earlier.” He takes a deep breath and looks around the table. “It looks like Robocop wasn’t the only one who got a version of the super-serum. Blondie did too.”

Cho stands and begins to pull up files. “Their cells show accelerated cellular regeneration,” she says. “It’s incredible. The frontal lobectomies that were documented should have, well, showed on imaging. There should have been a significant amount of their brains _missing_. Brain tissue doesn’t just grow back; that’s part of the reason lobectomies are effective in controlling seizures. But besides the scars on their foreheads, there aren’t any signs of damage to that area. If it weren’t for the photographic evidence, it’d be hard to believe that the operations happened at all. And then there’s the shocks to the brain that they probably received from this, uh, ‘memory suppressing machine.’ We’re not sure how many times they were subjected to it, but considering the other, uh, torture, they went through, and the sheer amount of detail about the machine, it was probably a lot. Anyway, there should definitely be some residual damage from those shocks, but the fact is, their brains show _none_.”

Banner adds, “We’re not entirely sure why Robocop is still having seizures, and there’s no physiological reason for their aphasia – that is, their inability to talk. It’s most likely psychosomatic due to their trauma. Also, despite his small stature, Blondie’s cells actually show a higher rate of regeneration than Robocop’s. He might have received some kind of improved serum that was developed later.”

“That could explain all the blood draws,” says Natasha, and she recalls the photo of Blondie lying in the metal sarcophagus, bleeding from puncture marks. “They were probably testing his healing.”

“Have they said anything else? Like, through sign?” asks Clint.  

Banner frowns and shakes his head. “Not really. They seemed to understand what we wanted them to do for the scans and as far as we could tell, they consented to getting them. Blondie led Robocop through it, just like before, and they both seemed a little bit anxious. But besides nodding and shaking their heads, there hasn’t been anything else, not even the sign language.”

“I wonder if they got scared from speaking any more,” says Natasha. “Or if they didn’t want to communicate in the presence of a new person.”

“Hard to say,” says Banner. “They were tired, too. We woke them up.”

“How’d they sleep?” asks Clint.

“Well, as far as I can tell. JARVIS said that they didn’t show any signs of distress. Besides moving to Thor’s extra-big bed and adjusting their IV stands, it seems like they fell asleep and hardly moved afterward.”

“They were cuddled up pretty tightly when we found them,” says Stark. “Just like before.”

“Before?” says Natasha.

“Uh,” says Stark, wincing as Banner elbows him. “When Bruce and I visited to look at all that metal, they were kinda – Blondie was in Robocop’s lap and Robocop was feeding him, uh, water. They were half-naked.”

“New research indicates that skin-to-skin contact is not only important for infants, but also for adults,” mumbles Banner, looking extremely uncomfortable. “Maybe it was an effective way for them to cope with their trauma.”

 _“Therapy,”_ Clint mutters fervently, staring into his coffee.

“Pep’s on it, Barton, don’t worry,” Stark says.

“Praise Pepper,” Clint says, and he gives a hybrid gesture somewhere between a salute and the sign of the cross.

“Sorry to interrupt, but there’s another thing I noticed that I’d like to share,” says Cho, clearing her throat. “It’s about Robocop in particular. His blood work shows antibodies for smallpox, and – though it’s well hidden by all the others – he has a smallpox vaccination scar on his right arm. Apart from specialized lab workers, no one’s been vaccinated for smallpox for decades. Like Tony said, he wouldn’t have aged much due to cryostasis and he looks like he’s in his late 20’s. If he’s originally American, then he might have gotten a vaccination in the 1940’s, perhaps for military service; he would have been in his early 20’s then. If he’s not American, then he might have received it during more widespread global eradication efforts in the 1970s, maybe during one of the, uh, ‘maintenance’ efforts. I suspect he got it early in his captivity, though, or maybe even before, since the scar is so much more faded than the rest.”

It takes a moment for that to sink in. “So,” says Banner quietly. “Robocop might be an American POW?”

Cho nods. “It’s just speculation, but it’s an interesting clue.”

“J,” says Stark, his voice tense, “can you cross-reference American soldiers who went missing in 1945? Listed as MIA? And, uh, maybe ones who looked like Robocop?”

“Yes, sir,” says JARVIS.

“Great.” Stark picks up his bag of blueberries, puts them down, and walks to the bar in the corner of the room. “Carry on, team. I just need a minute.”

Banner casts a concerned glance at Stark’s back and says, “Helen, you want to show them the arm design?”

Cho glances around the room and nods. She pulls up a schematic of the new design of the arm and an exploded version of all its components, moves to stand, and then seems to catch himself. “The arm will be made of graphene composites and titanium. It’ll not only be lighter than the original, but it’ll also integrate into his body more quickly and might even allow a greater range of movement - more precise fine motor control, for one, and more flexibility along his joints. It looks like the first couple versions of the arm were made of steel and cobalt chrome, which must have caused a huge weight imbalance, not to mention a serious risk of infection.” She tucks a strand of hair back behind her ear, her expression grim as she flips through the old designs of the arm. “I actually wonder if there _was_ an immune response, and they had to keep amputating upward toward his shoulder, since more and more of the humerus appears in each successive iteration of the arm. It’s not exactly clear from the operation pictures or from the notes.”

Cho pulls up a scan of Robocop’s spine, showing them a series of metal plates along Robocop’s spine, and then the metal embedded into his collarbone and shoulder blades. “Speaking of surgery, he’ll probably need it to get the remnants of the old arm off. I don’t think there’s a need to remove and replace all the spinal attachments, since they’re made of titanium. Thank goodness – he might have had a fatal immune response otherwise. But in order to attach the new arm, we’ll need to remove and replace the anchoring structures along his clavicle since they’re made of a heavier metal. That whole procedure is going to edge really close to his heart. Even with accelerated healing he might face a long recovery.”

She pauses to take a sip of water, looking around at the room. “I’m happy to offer the Cradle to help with the procedure – you all have seen how effective it was when it healed Agent Barton’s arm.” Clint grins and gives her a thumbs-up and a wave of his coffee cup. Cho smiles at him and continues, “I’ll need to do some preliminary tests to make sure that the cells’ regenerative properties don’t interfere with the Cradle’s function. If not, then we can make a plan for operation.”

“There’s one thing we weren’t sure about for the arm,” says Banner, “and that’s the power source.” He gives a little cough. “Tony, could you…?“

“Yes,” says Stark, whipping around. “The power source!” He points to a little rectangle in the metal tricep of the first arm, right above the elbow, and then to the same spot in subsequent versions. “See that? That is the power source of Robocop’s arm. For the new one, we’ll probably use one of my arc reactors – the non-poisoning kind - but as much as I hate to admit it, the old one’s got us a little, shall we say, _befuddled_. It’d already been blown off when we found Robocop, so we don’t know exactly what it was, but it had to have been something with a ton of energy to power all that weight, but still small enough to fit into a mechanical tricep. It also didn’t change dimensions through all the different versions, which isn’t consistent with the progression of the rest of the arm.  I doubt HYDRA was going around replacing battery packs in the arm every time it shorted out, so –”

“Wait,” Clint interrupts suddenly. “Sorry. What about the Tesseract? HYDRA was already using it for the cryostasis chamber. Makes sense they’d use a little piece for the arm.”

Stark, Banner, and Cho all turn to look at Clint. “Barton,” says Stark, blinking slowly, “I would not have pegged you for a nuclear energy expert, and yet here we are. That makes perfect sense.”

Clint shrugs. “Just got a little too up close and personal with that cube, you know?”

“Oh,” says Stark. “Right.” He hastily takes another sip of his drink.

“Is there anything else, Stark?” asks Natasha. She keeps her eyes on Clint, making sure that the tension in his shoulders drains away as he takes deep, controlled breaths.

 “Oh, yes.” Stark sets down his drink and claps his hands together. “Last but not least: Blondie’s cuffs. They’re super close to his skin – too close to get off safely. If possible, I’d like to have the Cradle on hand for when we remove them so that we can heal him as quickly as possible. Also, I’m still trying to figure out how to get them off. Vibranium is notoriously hard to break and Dad’s notes aren’t that help -” He trails off abruptly, his eyes brightening. “Huh. Actually, I might know a guy. He’s a _little_ unsavory, but he might know.”

“Should we be worried?” asks Natasha, raising her eyebrows.

“No. Maybe? I only met the guy once, and I’m not exactly in his line of business anymore.”

“Whoever he is, we can’t let him know why we’re asking about vibranium,” warns Natasha.

Stark salutes her. “You got it, Miss Rushman.”

“Where is vibranium from, anyway?” asks Banner curiously.

“A third-world African nation called Wakanda,” says Stark.

“Does anyone know any manufacturers of vibranium products? What about researchers studying vibranium? They might have an idea of how to dissemble it?” Banner turns to look at Natasha and Clint. “Does S.H.I.E.L.D. know anyone that might be a bit more, uh, legal?”

“I’ll ask,” says Natasha.

“Thank you,” says Banner.

Stark stands and begins to make for the door. “All right, team. Are we all done here? Good job, everyone, pip, pip. Helen, Bruce, I’ve got an idea about the nerve replacements for the arm I’d like to run by you to make sure it’s not toxic –”

“Excuse me, sir, agents, doctors,” JARVIS interrupts. “I have found a possible answer to your earlier query about Robocop’s identity.”

Stark halts. “Go ahead, J." 

“According to US military databases, several thousand soldiers were listed as MIA in 1945 during the Second World War. I ran a facial scan of Robocop’s features and cross-referenced them with enlistment photos, and the highest match was the following individual: Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, commonly known as ‘Bucky,’ born March 10, 1917.”

Three sepia-toned photos of Bucky Barnes appear in the air. In the first, dated February 14, 1943, Barnes is dressed in his military uniform, his cap tilted at a jaunty angle. He has bright eyes untouched by the horrors of war, and baby fat still lingers on his cheeks. In the second, dated January 1945, Barnes sits on a truckbed next to a fully uniformed Captain America, facing away from the camera and pointing at a map. The camera has captured his side profile. He’s a handsome man with his sharp jawline and high cheekbones and could easily pass for an old Hollywood star. 

The third photo is taken from a newspaper article. “November 4th, 1944: Captain America rescues captured 107th Infantry in Austria!”  Captain America is at the forefront of the photo, smiling and waving to the camera, but Barnes stands just behind him, clapping. There’s a strained smile on his face and a gun slung across his chest. The resemblance to Robocop lies in his eyes: like Robocop’s, Barnes’ eyes carry shadows, and his forehead and left eye carry a familiar pattern of bruising matching the electroshock machine from the base.

JARVIS continues, “Barnes was the best friend of Steven Grant Rogers, also known as Captain America. He was also a member of the elite Western Allies combat unit called the Howling Commandos, formed from a group of POWs that Captain America rescued when he raided the HYDRA base at Kreischberg in Austria. The goal of the Howling Commandos was to destroy HYDRA bases, and Barnes was their sniper. On February 1, 1945, he was declared MIA after falling off a train in the Alps during a mission to capture HYDRA’s head scientist Arnim Zola, who was trying to develop a super-soldier serum for the Red Skull. The mission was successful, but Barnes was lost.”

“J,” says Stark, looking like he’s just swallowed something extremely bitter, “Did anyone go back and look for Barnes? Anyone like – I don’t know, Captain America?”

“No, sir. Barnes was presumed dead. Captain America crashed the Valkyrie into the Arctic Ocean two days later to prevent the Red Skull’s bombs from reaching their targets, notably New York City and other major cities in the United States.  The Red Skull died with him.”

“Sounds like a suicide mission,” Banner murmurs. Natasha looks at him, assessing, and he shifts uncomfortably and averts his gaze. “Anyway, the pieces do add up. Maybe instead of dying from the fall, Barnes was found by HYDRA. Being, uh, stored in the cryostasis chamber might have saved his life. Unfortunately.”

It’s Clint who breaks the ensuing, heavy silence that envelops the room. “So what now?”

“We’re still waiting to see if either Blondie or Robocop’s DNA matches to anyone else’s that might be in a database. It’ll probably take another six hours,” says Cho, and she looks uncertain. “Until then…”

“I’ll be working on the arm and cuffs,” Stark declares.

“I’ll be helping,” says Banner quickly.

“And so will I,” says Cho, and she shoots an apologetic look toward Natasha and Clint. “I could also use a little bit more sleep.”

Clint sighs and grimaces, stretching as he gets to his feet. “I guess it’s time for our particular skillset,” he says to Natasha, setting down his coffee with a sad frown.

Natasha nods, rising from the table. “We’ll go and talk to them, see if Robocop can confirm that he’s James Barnes. JARVIS, could you let him and Blondie know that Clint and I are coming down?”

“Yes, Agent Romanoff,” says JARVIS. “I will wake them shortly.”

“Thank you.” Natasha takes a deep breath to ground herself and follows Clint to the elevator, schooling her face into a blank mask in preparation for what’s to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all of the wonderful kudos, comments, and encouraging messages you have all sent me! 
> 
> All credit for the material science technobabble about the arm goes to my wonderful partner, who is a materials engineer. All the biological technobabble belongs to me, though.


	4. Clint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robocop and Blondie finally get a chance to ask some questions - and provide some answers of their own.

“Agent Barton, Agent Romanoff, welcome. Sir’s guests are awake and waiting for you in the small common room at the back of the suite. I suggested that they move there for the conversation so that there was enough space for everyone to be comfortable.”

Clint glances at Natasha as they stop in front of the door. “Are we starting with our usual paired strategy? I talk, you assess, then you ask questions?” he asks.

Natasha nods. She looks pensive. “If they find out that we already suspect Robocop’s true identity, they’ll think we’re trying to manipulate them.”

“But if we drop the bomb too early, we’ll scare them into not speaking,” says Clint. “Okay. So I’ll give them a warning shot. Let them know that we’ve found something important, and then let them know what we’ve found.”

“Give them the chance to ask questions,” says Natasha, her gaze distant as she recalls something from her past. “I bet they’re used to being ordered around and talked over, even by us. Giving them time and space to communicate will go a long way in building their trust.”

Blondie and Robocop are huddled together on the couch, watching them warily as they enter the little waiting room at the back of the suite. The two men's IV stands and monitors are placed strategically in each corner, and water bottles lie at their feet. They still look half-starved, but there’s a little color to their cheeks now and they look much cleaner after their bath by baby wipe. They’re dressed in soft grey T-shirts with no logos and matching sweatpants. Robocop has his flesh arm around Blondie’s shoulder, and Blondie's got his head tucked against his chest. If not for the emaciation and the sterile environment, they might be just be any other couple cuddling together on a Saturday morning.

Clint settles into padded chair across from them. Blondie’s gaze follows Natasha as settles into the armchair in the corner of the room, curling up like a cat. He tilts his head and looks her up and down, his brow furrowed. Natasha pretends not to notice. Robocop – and up close, Clint can _really_ see the resemblance to Barnes – mostly stares at the floor, though he occasionally darts glances up toward Clint, trying to look at him without being caught.

Clint clears his throat and leans forward, and Blondie’s eyes snap back to him. “I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced. My name’s Clint Barton, and that’s Natasha Romanoff. We’re agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.”

Blondie frowns, his eyes darting between Natasha and Clint like he’s looking for a trap. Robocop doesn’t look up, but he squeezes Blondie’s hand and braces himself like he’s expecting a blow.

Clint leans back. “We’re not here to interrogate you,” he says. “We came to catch you up on what we’ve been doing. First things first. We’ve been going through the files we found at that base, and we found something pretty big that we wanted to ask you about. It’s about you, Robocop.” Robocop’s eyes dart upward, and he watches Clint from beneath his lashes.  Clint takes a deep breath and says, “We think we might have figured out your identity.” He opens the folder that’s been tucked under his arm and takes out the photo of Bucky Barnes in his military uniform.  “James Buchanan Barnes, born March 10, 1917,” is printed across the bottom.

Blondie reaches out a shaking hand for the photograph, the color in his face draining as he spots the text. Robocop leans over and looks, and his eyes go wide. He lets out a little yelp of fear and flings himself into the corner against the monitors, shaking his head and mouthing something over and over. Natasha jerks upward as if she’s been jolted, her eyes wide. Beeping fills the room as Blondie and Robocop’s heart rates accelerate.

“Nat? What’s he saying?”

“I think he’s saying ‘Ready to comply,’ in Russian,” says Natasha, pale, and she takes a deep breath, visibly pulling a layer of calm over herself as she settles back into the chair.

Blondie sends her a sharp glance and then turns his attention back to Robocop. He pushes himself off the couch and crawls across the floor until he gets right up into Robocop’s space, reaching out a hand and gently touching Robocop’s flesh hand. Robocop jerks, but Blondie doesn’t flinch. Slowly, Blondie curls his hand around Robocop, soothing him with a circular motion along his palm. Robocop lets out a soft moan and curls inward, holding his head in his hands. Blondie half-turns and glares at Clint, then his eyes widen as he realizes what he’s doing. He positions himself in front of Robocop, kneeling, and bows his head as he lifts his hands. _“Please, sorry_ ,” he signs.

“No, I’m sorry,” says Clint. “I really didn’t mean to cause that reaction. Are you” – he cuts himself off, because it’s a stupid question; of course they’re not all right. “Hey, man, let’s try this again. You guys can get back up on the couch if you want. Take your time. Or if you’re more comfortable on the floor, we can talk on the floor. Okay?”

Blondie slowly looks up, peering at Clint’s face. Doubt clouds his eyes, but he nods, guiding Robocop back to the couch so that they’re upright again. Robocop groans softly, still clutching at his skull. Blondie leans down and picks up the photograph, placing it carefully, almost reverently, on the arm of the couch.

 “You need anything for your head, Robocop?” Clint asks. “Maybe a painkiller? Or we can dim the lights. I get a lot of migraines, too, after spending too much quality time with the Tesseract.”

That gets both Blondie and Robocop’s attention like nothing else. Blondie freezes, staring at Clint with wide eyes. Robocop cautiously uncovers his face and then looks at Clint, openly curious.

“Ah.” Clint coughs and clears his throat, looking at Natasha, who raises an eyebrow. “Yeah. So. It’s public knowledge that a couple years back, I got brainwashed by a Norse god who got control of the Tesseract.”

Bewilderment flashes across Blondie and Robocop’s faces, and Clint grimaces. “Yeah. Loki. God of chaos and fan of fascism. Um, Thor’s brother? Real asshole, that one. I ended up killing a bunch of my friends, and I feel bad about it every damn day. Anyway, what’s not public knowledge is that now I can’t look at blue light for too long without getting big honkin’ warning signs from my brain to run the fuck away. In the early days those usually came with a panic attack, too.”

Clint takes a deep breath and shakes his head to clear it. “Anyway. I’m lucky enough to have a really great therapist covered by insurance. We know you’re going to need a lot of support too, and we’re going to do our best to give it to you. Stark’s got a ton of resources, and so does S.H.I.E.L.D. With our powers combined…” Clint suppresses a chuckle. “The point is. If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask."

Blondie and Robocop stare at him, looking utterly confused. Then Blondie signs, _"Thank you. Please continue."_

"Okay. Well, feel free to interrupt me if you need. So, part of the reason we're here is 'cause we’ve got a lot of questions after reading through the files, and we’d like to talk to you about them. But more importantly, we know you’ve probably got a lot of questions for us. We wanted to give you a chance to ask them first. Take your time. And if you think of something you want to ask later, or want to see one of us, or anything, you can ask JARVIS. Okay, that’s enough of me talking. You go ahead.”

After a long minute of silence, Blondie’s hands twitch in his lap. Clint looks at him, waiting patiently. Blondie hesitantly lifts his hands and glances at Robocop, who loops his arm back around Blondie and pulls him tight against his side. Then Blondie bites his lips and signs, slowly, _“What is...the D-A-T-E?”_

“It’s April 5, 2014,” Clint answers.

Blondie’s eyes bloom wide with shock. Robocop looks equally startled.

“Can I ask you something?” says Clint quietly. They nod. “What’s the last date you remember?”

Blondie looks at Robocop, brow furrowing. Robocop’s face screws up, and he shakes his head. Blondie signs, “ _Don’t know.”_

“That’s okay.”

There’s a pause as Blondie carefully considers his next question, his eyes darting from side to side. Robocop seems to be studying Natasha, who is studying him right back. Clint resists the urge to crack a joke to ease the tension.

 _“Where..."_ Blondie drops his hands, lifts them, and drops them again. After a long moment, he asks,  _"Here - where?"_

“Stark Tower,” says Clint, “Or, Avengers Tower, I guess.”

Blondie frowns like it’s not what he wanted to hear.

“In the center of Manhattan, New York,” Natasha adds.

A hopeful look flickers across Blondie’s face, briefly. Clint opens his mouth to ask another question, but quickly shuts it as Natasha gives the tiniest shake of her head. She’s watching their interaction carefully. Robocop’s stopped looking at her and is stealing glances at the photograph of Bucky Barnes over Blondie’s head.

“ _S-H-I-E-L-D?”_ asks Blondie, giving them a confused look.  _"What?"_

“Oh, uh. Good question. It stands for Strategic Homeland…” Clint rubs his eyes, his mind blanking. “Crap. Nat, please don't tell Fury I forgot this. JARVIS, help me out here.”

JARVIS says, “S.H.I.E.L.D. stands for Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division. It is a joint effort between the United States government and the World Security Council to protect the world from threats.” The S.H.I.E.L.D. logo appears in the air, and Blondie leans forward to study it, his lips parting slightly in surprise. Confusion flickers across Robocop’s face, and he tightens his arm around Blondie.

 _"S.H.I.E.L.D. -"_   Blondie pauses for a moment, frowning. _"Made by who?_ _”_

“Like, who founded S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

Blondie nods.

JARVIS answers, “S.H.I.E.L.D. was founded by Peggy Carter, Howard Stark, and Chester Phillips in 1946 as a successor to the Strategic Scientific Reserve.”

Blondie inhales sharply, and Robocop lets out a little gasp, as photographs of the three founders appear in the air. Blondie leans toward the one of Peggy Carter, reaching out to touch it and then jerking his hand back when it floats a little. He signs, in jerky movements, _“Woman - alive?”_

JARVIS answers, “Ms. Carter is in an assisted living facility in Washington, D.C., not too far from the S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. Sir visits her once a month.”

Blondie’s breath hitches, and he looks down, blinking rapidly. Robocop tenderly rubs Blondie’s arm up and down with his one hand, comforting. A horrible suspicion that’s been growing in Clint’s mind starts to take shape, and he looks over at Natasha. Her face is impassive, but her eyes widen the tiniest fraction when she catches his eye. She’s picked up on it too.

Five minutes pass. When Blondie looks up, his face is flushed and damp, like he’s tried to wipe away tears but hasn’t quite succeeded. He goes for the photo of Chester Phillips next, nudging Robocop a little. The corners of Blondie’s mouth twitch upward for the slightest moment, and Robocop’s eyes crinkle at the corners. Then Robocop’s gaze lands on the picture of Howard Stark, and his face goes white. Blondie takes one look at the photo and then flinches hard like he’s been struck.

Alarm bells go off in Clint’s head, and he exchanges another glance with Natasha. She brings a finger to her lips. _Wait_.

Blondie’s shaking so much that JARVIS has a hard time translating at first. “ _T-O-N-Y, H-O-W-A-R-D, S-T-A-R-K - they're family?”_

“Tony Stark is Howard Stark’s son,” says Natasha from her armchair. Her voice is quiet but carries perfectly in the small space. When Blondie and Robocop don’t respond, she continues, “He was twenty-one when his parents died in a car accident.”

Fear flashes across Blondie and Robocop’s faces, followed by an enormous heaping of guilt that neither of them can hide.  

“All reports stated that Howard was drunk and drove the car into a tree on an isolated road,” Natasha says, and she leans forward like a predator going in for the kill. “But that’s not the case, is it?”

Robocop cringes, trying to melt into the couch. Blondie’s eyes glimmer with tears, but he juts out his chin and meets Natasha’s gaze head-on, furrowing his brow.  _“What do you want?”_   he asks, aggressively.

“I want to know what you know,” says Natasha.

Blondie doesn’t budge. In fact, he crosses his arms in front his skinny chest and outright glares.

After a short standoff, Natasha sighs, her body language softening. She makes herself loose, vulnerable. “Look. Clint’s not the only one who has experience with brainwashing. I’m a Black Widow. A graduate of the Red Room. It’s a Russian training program for assassins that starts in childhood. A lot of what they call training is torture and manipulation.” Her mouth twists in a bitter smile as Robocop looks at her, frowning like he’s trying to remember something. “ _Ready to comply_ ,” Natasha murmurs in Russian. “Sound familiar?”

Robocop whimpers and curls in on himself. Blondie grabs his hand and squeezes it, but he doesn’t stop looking at Natasha. Belligerence still radiates from every pore of his body.

“The Red Room taught me to fight, to murder, to seduce. I don’t think it’s hubris to say that I’m an excellent spy. I used to work for the KGB, but Clint brought me in and now I work for S.H.I.E.L.D. Getting rid of the red in my ledger, one mission at a time.” She sits back, waving a hand. “I’m getting off topic. The point is, we can help you. We want to help you. Tony’s not part of S.H.I.E.L.D., and he can be impulsive. If you know something about Howard’s death that’s going to make Tony kick you out of this tower, we need to know that sooner rather than later, so that we can make sure you still have a safe place to stay and get all of the support that you need.”

Tense silence reigns for a good ten minutes as Blondie scrutinizes them from head to toe. Finally, he unfolds his arms slowly and turns to Robocop, brushing his hand, waiting for something. After a few hitched breaths, Robocop gives a tiny nod.  

Blondie takes a deep breath and bites his lip. He points to the photo of Howard Stark and signs, _"He helps us run."_

“Us?” Clint asks before he can help himself. Natasha shoots him a look that very clearly says, _Shut up_.

Blondie nods, gesturing to himself and Robocop. _“We hide in car.”_ Blondie brushes the collar, anger flashing across his face. Robocop moves and clutches at the remnants of his arm, distressed. “ _T-R-A-C-K-E-R-S_ _on.”_

Blondie continues, _“They catch us. P-U-N-I-S-H. Kill H-O-W-A-R-D and wife.”_ He stops and takes a shuddering breath, blinking back tears. Self-loathing is clear in every line in his body. “ _We_ _watch. We cannot help. Sorry. Sorry.”_   His breath gets shorter and shorter, and it rapidly evolves into the distinct wheezing of an asthma attack. Robocop springs into action, fumbling a rescue inhaler from the pocket of his sweatpants and shoving it under Blondie’s face. Clint and Natasha wait silently until the attack ends, and Robocop tucks Blondie back into his side like he needs reassurance from his form.

“ _Sorry,”_ says Blondie, staring at his knees.

“It’s all right,” says Clint. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Blondie’s mouth compresses into a tight line. He doesn’t look up.

Natasha says quietly, “If you’re up to it, and willing, I’d like to ask you a few follow-up questions.”

Blondie takes a moment to respond. He glances at Robocop again, who gives him another nod. Then he braces himself, meets her gaze, and nods.

“So to summarize, Howard and Maria Stark were killed because they were caught helping you escape.”

 Blondie nods, and he looks up with glossy eyes. “ _Do not_ _know - wife in car._ _”_

“Ah,” says Natasha softly. “Who were you trying to escape from?”

Blondie’s hands clench into fists before he signs, “ _H-Y-D-R-A_ _.”_

“And HYDRA caught you?”

Another nod.

“How long did HYDRA have you?”

Blondie frowns. “ _Don’t know._ ” He gestures towards his skull. _“They hurt us a lot  - electricity.”_

“Were you two always together?”

Blondie hesitates. Robocop leans forward and strokes his hair, then, to everyone’s surprise, points to himself and lifts one finger. Then he points to Blondie and lifts two fingers.

“So HYDRA had you first, then got him second.”

Robocop nods, looking nervous.

“How long were you with them before he joined you?”

Robocop shakes his head fearfully.

“You don’t remember.”

Robocop shakes his head again. A full-body tremor goes through him. Blondie gently pushes him back against the couch, taking his hand and rubbing the space between his thumb and index finger.

Natasha seems to realize this line of questioning isn’t going anywhere, and she switches gears. “How did you meet Howard Stark?”

Blondie suddenly looks nervous, and he averts his gaze. “ _Don’t know_ ,” he signs.

Natasha raises her eyebrows, but she doesn’t push it. “Okay,” she says blandly. “Maybe it’ll come back to you over time.” She leans back, affecting a relaxed pose. Clint almost laughs at the incredulous look Blondie shoots her.

Natasha glances at Clint and tilts her head. _Go ahead._

“Thanks for telling us all this,” Clint says. “I know it wasn’t easy. Nat and I will find a way to break it to Tony in a, uh, gentle way. I have a few questions, and I want to make sure you don’t have any more questions for us. Then, I figure we ought to let you guys rest and eat. It’s about lunch time, and I think Bruce wants to get you guys started on solid foods if you’re up for it. Just let me know when you’re ready. You can take a moment to drink some water and regroup if you want.”

Blondie eyes Clint warily, but he leans down and picks up the water bottle next to his ankle. The pop of the cap is loud in the room. He takes a sip and then passes the bottle to Robocop, who lifts the bottle and drinks obediently. Blondie then sets the bottle down and meets Clint’s eyes expectantly.

“Okay. Nat’s already talked to you about what happened to the Starks. That was in 1991. We have some idea of what happened to you guys afterward” – Blondie and Robocop tense, and Clint rushes to say, “uh, but I’m not going to ask you about that right now. What we really want to know is _who_ had you after that. Were you still with HYDRA or did you end up in custody of a different organization?”

Blondie and Robocop exchange a look of surprise. Blondie answers, “ _Same. Always HYDRA.”_

Clint swallows his own surprise and says, “HYDRA. HYDRA had you until we found you?”

Blondie and Robocop both nod.

“So,” says Clint. “It’s like we thought. HYDRA didn’t die after World War II.”

Blondie glances at Robocop, then at the picture of Bucky Barnes, and something flickers across his face. He leans forward and he looks right into Clint’s eyes. _“HYDRA - alive. Never dead. They hide - many places. A-U-S-T-R-I-A. R-U-S-S-I-A. America._ ”

“Okay, okay,” says Clint, scooting back a little. “I got it. HYDRA’s still alive and kicking. Internationally.”

Blondie nods. His movements become more urgent. _“They plan - they want - kill people soon. Project I-N-S-I-G-H-T.”_

Natasha gasps softly, sitting upright. “Where did you hear that? Project Insight?”

_“HYDRA. They F-U-C-K us - they talk. They think - we don’t understand.”_

Natasha swears softly under her breath in Russian. “What else can you tell us about their involvement in Project Insight?”

Blondie looks at her like he’s just seeing her for the first time, hope shining in his eyes. _“They say, many S-P-I-E-S. They trick. Change T-A-R-G-E-T-S. Kill HYDRA enemies."_

“Anything else? Any names?”

Blondie shakes his head, frustrated. _“Sorry._ " He taps his head and then his eyes. _"Faces. No names."_

Natasha exhales slowly. “Okay,” she says.  “Okay. Thank you.” She’s gone pale. Shocked.

Clint needs to get her out of there. He turns back to the two men and quickly asks, “Is there anything you’d like to ask us or tell us before we go?”

Blondie’s eyes linger on the photograph of Bucky Barnes. He turns to Robocop, brushing his jaw tenderly, a question in his eyes like he’s seeking permission for something. Robocop takes a deep, trembling breath and squeezes his eyes shut. Then he takes Blondie’s hand, squeezes it, and nods.

Blondie picks up the photograph, brushing along the edge. He turns to Natasha and Clint and lifts his hands with grim determination. “ _You - right. He”_ – he points to Robocop, to make it clear – _"_ _J-A-M-E-S B-A-R-N-E-S._ _”_ He catches Robocop’s eye and his face softens. _“B-U-C-K-Y."_

Clint’s heart pounds, and before he knows it, he’s voicing the hunch he’s had about Blondie’s identity ever since they got back from the base. “If he’s James Barnes,” he says, not sure he wants to hear the answer, “then who does that make you? Steve Rogers?”

Blondie’s jaw tightens, and he nods once before signing, _“Yes.”_


	5. Pepper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team meets to discuss the revelation of Steve and Bucky's identities. Pepper supports Tony through a conversation about his parents' death.

Pepper is sipping a latte, sorting through her weekend work emails when her inbox pings with a message from the Smithsonian.

> Dear Ms. Potts:
> 
> Thank you again for allowing the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum to display Captain America’s effects found in Howard Stark’s archives. We cannot thank you enough for your contribution.
> 
> In preparation for the grand opening of the exhibit next weekend, we have been thoroughly double-checking the characteristics of each item against the documentation from the archives.
> 
> We recently noticed a discrepancy with Captain America’s shield. The weight of the shield appears to differ than the original weight listed. Upon closer inspection, we found that in addition to the cracks in the middle of the shield (documented as damage from gunshots by Ms. Margaret “Peggy” Carter, founder of the Strategic Scientific Reserve and Captain America’s romantic partner), the two outermost layers of the shield appear to have been replaced with a newer, heavier metal than the rest of the shield. We cannot find documentation of any such repair, and we were hoping you might be able to do one last search of the archives for any documents that could help us account for this discrepancy. We would like to ensure that our description of the shield is of the highest accuracy.
> 
> Please let us know if you have any questions or concerns. As always, we are open to a videoconference with you at your convenience.
> 
> Sincerely,
> 
> Richard S. Williams, PhD  
>  Senior Curator, Special Projects  
>  Smithsonian Air and Space Museum

Pepper sighs and pulls up her and Tony’s calendars, looking for an empty time slot when they’re both available. The archives are on the secret floor of the Tower, in between the general use office floors and the start of the private floors reserved for Avengers business offices and residences. She’ll have to make sure that she meets with Tony and searches within the next week to give the curators enough time to make their changes. Pepper could technically go down to the archives herself, but she never feels quite right wandering around there alone; the vaults are filled with personal Stark family effects that she doesn’t feel like it’s her place to touch.

“Excuse me, Miss Potts,” says JARVIS, “but Agent Romanoff has requested that all present Avengers and their associates, yourself included, meet in the conference room immediately to discuss a discovery of great importance.”

“Thank you, JARVIS. Tell the team I’ll be there shortly.”

Pepper quickly finishes sorting through the calendar, tentatively notes a spot when she and Tony are both available, and grabs the food order delivery for the team from the lobby before heading to the conference room. On the way, she idly contemplates what the emergency might be. She’d been in a conference call with a client in Germany when the team met a few hours ago, but Tony had sworn that she hadn’t missed anything significant besides “details of torture that no one needs to hear.”

An awkward silence greets her when she walks in. Natasha looks like she’s seen a ghost. Clint’s fingers are clenched tight around a purple coffee mug, and he keeps shaking his head, looking off into the distance incredulously, and looking back down at his coffee. Bruce and Helen are exchanging worried, nervous glances, and Tony is absent.

“Lunch,” Pepper announces, laying out the containers and opening them up. The spicy, sweet scent of Thai food fills the air. Clint rises from his seat like a zombie who’s been summoned from the depths of the earth. Pepper quickly makes up her own plate and steps out of the way as the rest of the team shuffles in line. “Where’s Tony?” she asks, settling into a seat.

“He, um, he said he had to make a call a while ago,” says Bruce, dumping a huge portion of vegetarian pad thai onto his plate. “Something about Africa? He said it’s related to vibranium.”

“Hm,” says Pepper, chewing on a piece of tofu, her mind drifting back to the email.

Tony bursts in five minutes later. “Oh. Everyone’s here already. Food! Thanks, Pep.” He clears his throat and strides towards the food, piling the remainders on his plate. Then he kisses Pepper on the cheek and plops down into the chair next to hers, running a hand through his hair. “Hi team. Sorry I’m late. Nothing quite like trying to get in touch with a black market arms dealer on a Saturday morning. I didn’t manage it, by the way. What’s going on? Spy kids, you said you have something to share?”

Natasha exchanges a glance with Clint, setting down her fork. Clint slowly finishes chewing his food, downs his coffee cup, and rubs his eyes before looking around the table. “Okay,” says Clint, “So. A few things. First, Robocop and Blondie told us who they are.” Tony opens his mouth but shuts it quickly as Natasha glares at him. Clint continues, “Everyone ready for this? Robocop claims he is indeed James Buchanan Barnes, or Bucky Barnes. And Blondie says he’s Steve Rogers, also known as Captain America.” 

There’s a moment of heavy silence, and then Tony shoots up out of his chair, almost knocking his plate to the ground. “No way,” he says, pointing to Clint. “No. That’s not possible. Robocop I could believe, okay, with the cryogenic freezing and – super serum, whatever. We have evidence of that. But _Captain America_? He’s been dead for seventy years.”

Bruce coughs and shifts in his seat. “Tony, it’s true. The results of Blondie’s DNA test came back. It was a 99% match to a sample from 1943, given by Steven Grant Rogers after he was injected with Abraham Erskine’s super-soldier serum.”

Tony shakes his head, then his eyes light up. “Maybe he’s a clone?”

“Maybe,” Bruce hedges.

“It’s unlikely,” Helen says with a doubtful grimace. “No one’s successfully cloned a human before. Even with something like the Tesseract available…the Tesseract is more a source of nuclear power than a biological catalyst.”

Tony drops down into his seat and starts picking at his food. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. Let’s say this is true. I’ve got a few questions. First, how did Captain America survive a plane crash? Second, when was he found? Third, how could he have been found without anyone knowing about it? Dad and Aunt Peggy searched for years, every year, in fact, up until I turned ten years old and Mom finally put her foot down.” His face is flushed, and emotions are roiling across his face like a storm. Pepper reaches out a hand and rubs his shoulder.

“I was wondering the same thing,” says Bruce, “but you said it yourself, Tony. Barnes went missing in early 1945 and was placed in the cryostasis chamber shortly afterward, which along with the super serum presumably helped him survive, especially after he lost his arm. Rogers crashed the plane around the same time into –”

“The Arctic,” Helen says, her eyes alight. “He was _frozen_. And if he had a super serum just like Barnes – in fact, because he had the original serum, then he had an even greater chance of surviving.”

“We don’t know about when, but the _who_ is probably HYDRA,” says Natasha, her mouth in a tight line. “Both Barnes and Rogers said that as far back as they can remember, HYDRA had them until we rescued them from that base. It’d make sense for HYDRA to keep them hidden – why reveal that you have the original source of super-soldier serum when you could use it for your own means? Although, Barnes said HYDRA had him first and then got Rogers second, so it’s possible Rogers was initially found by someone else.”

Natasha takes a deep breath, pushing her plate away. “That’s not the only thing. Rogers says HYDRA is still active all over the world. It’s possible HYDRA’s already infiltrated several governmental and extragovernmental agencies.”

The implication of that statement is not lost on anyone, least of all Tony. “Like S.H.I.E.L.D.?” he presses.

Natasha nods, swallowing. This is the first time Pepper’s seen her look genuinely upset. “We’ve started looking into it,” she says quietly.

“But,” Tony says, scrubbing at his face and laughing a little hysterically. “It can’t be. The serum made Captain America look like – Michelangelo’s David, or something. Blondie is _tiny_.”

“Steve Rogers was tiny before he got the serum,” Clint says.

“J,” says Tony, gritting his teeth, “are there any pictures of Steve Rogers before the serum?”

“Only one remains, Sir.” A black-and-white photo of a young man appears in the middle of the room. _Steve Rogers, June 1940, enlistment_. The resemblance to Blondie is unmistakable.

Tony does a double-take and huffs. “I need a drink,” says Tony. He gets up to go to the bar, but Pepper sends him a warning look and passes over her lukewarm latte instead. Tony grumbles but takes a sip, staring at the photo and then looking away with a shake of his head.

Helen leans forward, studying the photograph. “I think,” she says slowly, frowning, “whoever had Rogers – HYDRA - must have found some way of reversing the serum so that he became small again. But it didn’t work completely, because his cells still have regenerative properties, to the extent that he could recover from a drastic removal of brain tissue.”

Tony huffs, spinning Pepper’s empty latte cup around and around. “I don’t get it. If I’m a Nazi organization who’s captured Captain America, why wouldn’t I just try to turn Captain America into a super soldier for my side? Why would I try to reverse the serum?”

“Revenge,” says Natasha with a little shrug. “Rogers destroyed the original incarnation of HYDRA after receiving the serum, a serum that HYDRA wanted and kept trying to recreate. What better way to make him feel powerless than to revert him back to his original body? Especially if he refused to give in and fight for them?”

“You know,” says Clint, waving his fork. “It all kinda makes sense. The weird United States-themed sex toys, the serum, the stuff he was saying to Bruce about the shield…”

“Barnes stopped him,” says Bruce, looking thoughtful. “He must have been about to tell me who he was, that first night, but Barnes was scared what would happen if I, or we, knew. After what they’ve been through, I don’t blame Barnes for being cautious.”

There’s a long silence as everyone processes the information. Clint looks around cautiously and digs into his food, and Bruce and Helen follow suit. Natasha doesn’t move.  

Pepper squeezes Tony’s shoulder and leans in close. “Are you all right?” she asks.

“Yeah, I–” He laughs like he's about to sob. “I’m just trying to imagine what Dad would say. I can’t tell if he’d be proud of me for getting Captain America back at last, or – I don’t know.”

Bruce finishes his noodles and then rises from his seat. “I’m going back to the medical suite. I think it’s about time we got Bl – um, Rogers and Barnes some real food for lunch.”

“I’ll join you,” says Helen. “I’d like to meet them properly and talk to them about our progress on the arm.”

“I’ve put some bananas, applesauce, and Saltine crackers in a tote bag in the lab like you requested,” Pepper informs them, and she moves to stand. “I’ll come with you, too. I’d like to welcome them formally. Tony, what do you think about setting up a floor for them in the Avengers section?”

“Actually, Pepper, wait,” says Natasha before Tony gets a chance to answer. “There’s something else we wanted talk to you and Tony about.”

Bruce and Helen exchange a worried glance. “We’re going now,” Bruce murmurs, and they exit quickly.

Tony watches them go with a slightly lost look on his face and turns his attention back to Natasha. “Well, spy kids? What other earth-shattering news have you got for me today?”

Natasha and Clint exchange another foreboding glance. Then Natasha says, without preamble, “Rogers and Barnes also told us something else. It’s about your parents’ death.”

Tony stiffens. “My parents died in an accident because my drunk idiot father drove them off of an icy road.”

Natasha shakes her head, and she says, in a gentler voice than Pepper’s ever heard from her, “That’s not what happened. Your parents died because your father tried to help Rogers and Barnes escape from HYDRA by hiding them in his car. He didn’t succeed because HYDRA tracked them down using the tracker in Rogers’ collar and, presumably, Barnes’ metal arm. HYDRA killed your parents and forced Rogers and Barnes to watch to punish them for trying to escape.”

The color has drained out of Tony’s face. He can’t seem to speak.

Natasha hesitates, then leans forward. “If it helps, Rogers and Barnes didn’t know your mother was going to be in the car.”

Tony lets out a choked noise. Pepper reaches out and squeezes his hand tightly. “Tony,” she murmurs.

Tony shakes his head sharply and scrubs at his face with his other hand. “I’m having that drink now,” he says, and he almost runs to the bar at the back of the room. His hands are shaking as he pours a glass of his favorite Scotch and turns his back to the room. Natasha catches Pepper’s gaze and tilts her head toward Tony, a question in her eyes.

“I’ll take care of him,” Pepper mouths, putting a reassuring smile on her face. It’ll probably mean letting Tony lock himself in his workshop for three days, but Pepper will at least make sure he’s eating and sleeping at some point. She and JARVIS have optimized their strategy for managing Tony when he’s in a mood. Bruce can help, too.

Clint and Natasha slowly rise from their chairs and make for the door.

“Did they say anything else?” asks Tony, still not turning around.

“No,” says Natasha, and she looks at the back of his head, her gaze soft and sincere. “Tony. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

“I’m really sorry, man,” says Clint. “You know, I know a great therapist who…” Natasha gives him a look. “…too soon? Okay. Well. I can refer you, just saying.”

Tony inhales shakily and downs the Scotch. His eyes are wild as he whirls around. “I want to talk to them. Robocop and Blondie. Rogers and Barnes. Whoever. I want to ask them about this.”

“Um,” says Clint. “I’m not so sure that’s a good –”

“Shut up, Barton,” Tony snaps. “I – I’m not going to kill them, or hurt them. I need to hear it from the horse’s mouth, okay? Captain’s mouth? Captain’s fingers? Fuck. That sounded really wrong. But. My point is, primary sources and all that. You understand.”

“Oookay,” says Clint, holding his hands up. “Fine.”

“We’ll visit them after Bruce and Helen have finished,” says Pepper. “There’s no reason to interfere with their medical care. Come finish your lunch.”

Tony sets down his glass and sinks back down into his chair, half-heartedly shoving some chicken into his mouth.

“Tell the team we’ll meet for dinner,” Pepper says to Natasha and Clint, who are hovering by the door. Natasha nods, and they leave.

Pepper clears the food as Tony finishes eating. When he’s done, she sits down and pulls him into an embrace, rubbing his back as he breathes in and out shakily. She ignores the damp patch growing on her blouse and waits quietly for him to finish, discreetly reaching for the Kleenex in the center of the table. She gives it to him silently when he lifts his head. He turns his face away to blow his nose, tosses the dirty tissues into the trash, and looks back at her. “Thanks,” he says, his voice hoarse.

“Are you ready?” she asks.

Tony clears his throats and nods. “Never a good time for a life-changing revelation,” he says with a humorless smile. “J, are the docs still with Robocop and Blondie?”

“Dr. Banner and Dr. Cho are just leaving the medical suite, and Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes are finishing up their lunch, sir,” JARVIS answers. “Sir, may I suggest waiting an hour or two before visiting the suite? Dr. Banner would like to make sure Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes are able to completely digest the solid foods they are trying, and it would not do to cause them undue stress during this process.”

“Fine,” says Tony, and he looks almost relieved. “Thanks, J.”

“You’re welcome, sir.”

Tony takes a deep breath and looks around the room. “I was going to say yes,” he mutters. “To your question. About giving them a suite. Or two suites, if they wanted.”

“And now?” asks Pepper.

Tony swallows. “Still yes,” he says, nodding. “Once Bruce clears it, we’ll get everything ready. They’ll need therapy, too. Lots of it. Just like the rest of us.”

“I’ll keep looking,” Pepper says. “It wouldn’t do for them to share a therapist with any of the other Avengers. We need someone highly specialized, too; in fact, they might need a whole team to support them. I’m thinking of contacting the VA and seeing if they have anyone who might be suitable.”

“Sounds like a plan,” says Tony, and he yawns suddenly. “Do you think anyone will mind if I take a nap?”

Pepper kisses his temple. “No, Tony. Go and get some sleep. You need it.”

Tony waggles his eyebrows. “Want to join me?”

Pepper smiles. “I’ve got work to do,” she says. “Emails to read, files to review, all of the things that come with being CEO –”

Tony grumbles and pulls her closer. “Come on,” he wheedles. “It’s just a couple of hours. Please? I just experienced several stress-inducing revelations about my life, my family, the residents of this tower…”

Pepper sighs and pretends to think about it. “Okay, fine,” she says, smiling, and she leads him toward the elevator. “Come on.”

* * *

Pepper wakes two hours later to JARVIS’ gentle, “Excuse me, sir, Miss Potts. I am waking you now as you’ve requested.”

 “Thanks, JARVIS,” says Pepper softly. She shifts and blinks her eyes open. Tony’s got his arm wrapped tightly around her waist, and he grunts, tightening his grip a little as she tries to sit up.

“Tony,” Pepper whispers.

“Hrgh.”

“Tony, do you still want to visit the medical suite?”

Tony groans and flops onto his stomach. “Yes,” he says into the pillow. “The therapy books…say…you shouldn’t let things… _fester_ …it’s unhealthy…” He grunts and flips over, staring at the ceiling. “And anyway, it’s not really Captain America’s fault, or Barnes’, if you think about it. It’s just kind of hard for me to adjust my expectations. Yeah. Big paradigm shift. It’s gonna take a while.”

Pepper sits up and kisses the top of his head. “I’m proud of you,” she says.

“What?” Tony squints at her, surprised. “What for?”

“For working on getting better,” she answers.

They run into Bruce outside of the door of the medical suite. “Oh, uh, hey guys,” he says, startled.

“Green Giant,” says Tony. “How’s it going with our favorite patients?”

“They seem to be doing well,” says Bruce, adjusting his glasses as he looks at his notes. “Kept the first round of solid foods down – it means they’ll be able to start regaining some weight. The serum might help accelerate that too, who knows. They’re not communicating a whole lot – I think the time with Nat and Clint wore them out – but they seem more responsive, more open than before. No seizures, no new asthma attacks…nothing alarming. I’m thinking of setting them up with a bath this evening since their blood pressure looks stable and their mobility’s improving. I doubt they’ll want assistance with it, and I want to respect their autonomy, but I’ll be on standby just in case.” He looks between Tony and Pepper. “Be gentle and patient when you talk to them. They’re still recovering.”

“Thank you, Bruce,” says Pepper.

“You’re welcome,” he says, and he heads toward the elevator, then stops halfway and turns. “Oh, Tony. Can you come meet me and Helen in the workshop when you’re done?”

“You got it,” says Tony. He returns his attention to the door to the suite, taking a long series of deep breaths.

“Tony, if you’re not ready –”

“No. I’m ready. I swear, Pep. If I don’t do this now, I might not ever do it.” Tony takes a deep, grounding breath and runs his fingers through his hair. “But you know, you should take the lead. I know you’ve been wanting to talk to them too, so you should go first.”

“We can leave at any time,” says Pepper firmly. “Okay? You don’t have to go through with this right now.”

“Okay.”

Pepper kisses Tony’s cheek, then knocks lightly on the door before pushing it open. JARVIS directs them to the room at the end of the hall – Thor’s room, though he’s so rarely at the Tower that they might as well call it the room the extra large bed, or even the couples’ room. From what Pepper sees when she enters, the latter would be appropriate. Rogers and Barnes are curled up together like lovers on the bed, watching warily as they approach. A couple of the notebooks and pencils Pepper bought are stacked on the table next to them, along with a bunch of bananas, applesauce cups, packaged Saltine crackers, and easy-cap water bottles. It looks like Bruce has placed wireless vital signs monitors on them that feeds directly into JARVIS. A display of their heart rate, heart rhythm, and other vital signs scrolls discreetly in the corner above their abandoned IV stands.

“Hello again,” says Pepper. “Sergeant Barnes, Captain Rogers, it’s an honor to formally meet you.”

Rogers shifts. _“Nice to meet you_ ,” he signs. _“Please. My name - S-T-E-V-E. His - B-U-C-K-Y.”_

“Nice to meet you, Steve and Bucky,” says Pepper, smiling.

A little smile crosses Steve’s face. Bucky gives a hesitant wave with his flesh hand.

“You probably know this already, but I’m Pepper Potts,” she says. “I’m the CEO of Stark Industries, and I work very closely with the Avengers. And this is Tony Stark, who, well, you’ve met a couple of times already.”

They nod.

“I know you’ve had a lot of people coming in and out, and you’re still recovering, so we’ll try to keep this short,” says Pepper. “First, we wanted to welcome you formally into the Tower. Once you’re a little more recovered, we’ll set up a residential floor for you in the Avengers section of the tower which you can stay in permanently. Or would you rather we set up two separate floors?”

It takes a moment for them to realize she’s waiting for a response. Bucky nudges Steve, and Steve signs hesitantly, _“Together. Please. Thank you.”_

“Together it is, then.  Once the time gets closer, we’ll meet with you and figure out what furniture and decorations you like, as well as the legal requirements for your residency and your identity. You’ll have SI’s legal team at your disposal for that. Of course, we’ll provide you with any other resources that you need, too, and you’re welcome to stay somewhere outside of the Tower if you wish. But - I’m sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself.”

 She looks around the suite. The walls in this room are painted a nice, calming sea green, but they’re bare. “Is there anything else you’d like to have while you’re recovering down here? Maybe something to entertain yourself with like some books, or some games, or a television? We also have a huge collection of films which we could play for you.” She leaves out the option of Internet for now. Besides the fact that they probably don’t know what Internet is, introducing them to the Internet will be too much, too fast, not to mention a potentially high-risk security breach. They have JARVIS if they need to look up information.

Steve and Bucky confer through a series of confused glances. _“Anything,”_ Steve answers.

“Okay then,” says Pepper. “I’ll confer with the rest of the team and see if they have some suggestions. Everyone’s got different tastes. If you don’t like something, you don’t have to watch, read, or play it. It’s your choice.” She pauses and takes a breath. “Do you have any questions?”

Steve studies her with a piercing gaze. _“Thank you. But - help us?  Why? In return for what?”_

“Because you deserve kindness after years of torture,” Pepper answers. Steve’s face flushes and he looks down, and Bucky’s eyes widen as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “I know it might be hard to accept right now, but it’s true. We don’t want anything in return. All we want is for you to be safe, healthy, and happy, and doing what you want with your life when you’re able.”

When Steve looks up, his eyes are glimmering, and he looks a little overwhelmed. _“Thank you very much.”_ Bucky rubs Steve’s shoulder and then meets Pepper’s gaze. He signs, _“Thank you_ ” before looking away quickly.

“You’re very welcome,” says Pepper. “I think that’s it from me. Tony wanted to talk to you as well.”

Tony clears his throat and runs a hand through his hair. His eyes are still a little puffy. “So, uh. The spy kids told me what you told them. About Dad and Mom’s death.” Steve and Bucky tense and brace themselves like they’re expecting to be hit. Tony’s eyes widen, and he holds up his hands at once. “It’s nothing like that. I’m not here to take my revenge on you. I just – I wanted to hear it from you.”

Steve’s eyes soften, and he leans forward, meeting Tony’s gaze. Bucky curls around him protectively, keeping his eyes on Steve's hands. “ _Your father - a good man.”_ Steve’s eyes linger on the cuffs on his wrists for a moment, and then he continues, _“For a long time...no one - help - us. But - he  help - we are free. Always - thankful .”_ He lowers his head, taking a shuddering breath, and meets Tony's eyes again with a sorrowful gaze.  _“Sorry - your mother. Don't know.."_  Steve takes another deep breath, and Bucky rubs his shoulder, soothing. _"We - too late. We_ _try - save life. But - HYDRA - we cannot fight.”_

Tony lets out a half-choked noise. Pepper takes his hand and squeezes it. “Okay,” says Tony, swiping at his face. “You know, it’s kind of refreshing. All these years I thought Dad had killed Mom by drunkenly driving their car off the road. But to know that they died because he was trying to save you – Captain America, no less – you were his friends, and you were heroes, and that’s, that’s a little better.”

Bucky looks up. He looks like a kicked puppy as he signs, _“No.  Me - no H-E-R-O. Guilty. Sorry.”_

Steve’s eyes widen in terror. He closes one trembling hand around Bucky’s, shaking his head. _“ Both guilty. Sorry. Please. Sorry.”_

Tony waves a hand. “No. You are heroes. It’s not your fault you got captured and tortured. Sometimes the only thing you can do is escape and try to beat them later.” He coughs and shakes his head, clearing his throat noisily. “Look at all these feelings!” he says, trying to sound dismissive but not quite succeeding. “I’m way past my feelings quota for today! Normally I just limit my experience to one a day, maybe two if I’ve had a drink.”

 _"Sorry,_ ” Bucky signs again, miserably. A tear trickles down his cheek, and Steve turns and gently wipes it off with his thumb. Pepper’s heart breaks a little.

“We’ll leave you two to rest,” says Pepper.

 _“Thank you,”_ says Steve.

Pepper puts on a smile and guides Tony out to the hallway. In her peripheral vision, she sees Steve open a notebook and put a pencil to the page. She makes a mental note to mention it to the team later, and then they’re out of sight.


	6. Tony, part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony contacts an old acquaintance and discovers a surprise in his father's archives.

“DUM-E, go get the pliers – no, no, the _pliers_ , not the wrench,” Tony half-shouts, exasperated.

DUM-E rolls forward slowly, whacks Tony’s knee with the pliers, and drops the pliers on the floor. Then the robot rolls away into the corner and shuts itself off with a loud, angry chirp.

“Oh, sure, be grumpy,” Tony mutters, bending to pick up the pliers. He groans a little as his back cracks with a series of loud pops. “Ow.”

Tony sighs and looks around the empty workshop, his eyes lingering on the back wall where he’s hidden his Iron Man suits. The mechanical and electrical components of Robocop’s – Barnes’ – prosthetic arm lie on the table, laid out in a vague form of organization. Tony’s been working on wiring the substitute nerves for a few hours now. Helen and Bruce are in an adjacent room with the Cradle, planning the surgery in which they’ll attach the prosthesis. Romanoff and Barton have returned to the S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters in DC to debrief with Nick Fury and try to sniff out any HYDRA moles.

Tony’s still having trouble wrapping his mind around Robocop and Blondie’s true identities. Yes, logic dictates that the pieces fit together, and the two men themselves have confirmed that they are Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers. But Tony’s mind keeps rejecting the idea. He just can’t believe that Captain America – the man his father constantly idolized and compared to Tony throughout Tony’s childhood  - has been alive for all these years, getting tortured by HYDRA as a sex slave. It’s too horrifying to think about, and Tony’s mind keeps skittering away from the possibility like a scared mouse. And then there’s Bucky Barnes, who _Tony_ had idolized as a child. Bucky had always seemed more accessible to Tony. His propensity as a sniper meant that he was good at mathematics and physics; he hadn’t received the super serum (or so everyone thought); he was charming with the ladies; and he was always trying to please his commanding officer – just like Tony.

Of course, there’s also the whole thing with his parents’ death. His father had sacrificed his life to save the two men and taken his mother with him in the process. Tony is still reeling from the truth. He can’t tell if he’s angry, proud, horrified, or a combination of all three. It’s easier to try not to think about it, but he knows he can’t avoid it forever.

“Fuck,” Tony breathes, and he rubs his temples.

“Excuse me, Sir. It is time for your health break as dictated by Miss Potts,” says JARVIS.

Tony sighs but obediently stands. He opens the mini-fridge and chugs a protein shake, wipes his mouth, and then uses the bathroom. As he splashes water onto his face, he catches a glance of his reflection in the mirror and winces. Dark circles underscore his bloodshot eyes, contrasting sharply against his too-pale skin. He’s got a week’s worth of bedhead, and patches of scraggly stubble have started growing into his goatee. “At least I’ve showered in the past twenty-four hours,” he congratulates himself.  

“Excuse me, Sir,” JARVIS interrupts, “but you are receiving an encrypted video call from South Africa.”

Tony blinks and snaps to attention, striding out of the bathroom. “J, black out all my surroundings and then put the call through.”

“Yes, sir.”

Tony clears his throat and lounges in his chair as a video screen appears in the air. The man on the call has curly black hair, pale, beady eyes, and a thick beard that does little to improve his crazed grin. “Tony Stark,” he says. “It’s an _honor_. What on earth can I possibly do for you?”

“Ulysses Klaue,” greets Tony brusquely. “What makes you think you can do anything for me?”

Klaue laughs incredulously and opens his arms wide. He puts on a hurt expression. “You’re the one who contacted me!” His eyes light up. “Oh, I know. Let me guess. You want a piece of that fancy metal prosthetic.”

Tony raises his eyebrows, not letting any of the panic show on his face. How could Klaue know? Then the answer hits him like a truck: Barnes’ old metal arm. They hadn’t found it at the base.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t know? Oh, no, of course you knew. You may be living the clean life but you’re not that out of the loop.” Klaue leans forward toward the screen and looks around. His teeth are crooked and stained, and Tony fights a grimace as Klaue whispers, “I’ll let you in on a little secret. It’s on its way to Germany. Sent by _special request_ to a very important person. You could almost say that they were royalty.”

“Is that so,” says Tony with a noncommittal noise. “I have to admit, I’m a little curious. Where did you get it again? Siberia?”

 Klaue snorts. “Now that I am not going to tell you,” he says with a grin. “I’m not that stupid.”

“Never said you were.”

Klaue laughs. “Oh, Tony. I remember why I liked you. There aren’t many people I still like after they refuse to sell me something I want, but you’re something else. So. What can I, what is that thing those American cowboys say? What can I do you for?”

Tony does not smile back. He puts a pensive look on his face, waits till Klaue starts to squirm, then says, casually, “I heard you’re the black market’s foremost expert on vibranium. That true?”

“Well,” says Klaue, preening a little. “I don’t like to brag, but I do have quite the supply. How much are you looking for?”

“What kinds of units does it come in?” Tony asks, stalling for time as he considers the possibility of making Barnes’ arm with vibranium. It would be lighter than titanium, possibly safer, but he doesn’t know how much it might delay construction and surgery. They’re so close. Besides, he’s not sure the team – or hell, Barnes and Captain America – might approve of him making something out of an illegally, unethically acquired material.

Klaue whistles and waves a two-foot-long tube at the screen. “This right here is probably enough to power – oh, a military jet engine, if that’s what you’re trying to use it for. But the true power of vibranium is in its ability to deflect anything that comes at it and not get a dent. It’s indestructible.”

“Nothing can destroy it?”

“Nope,” says Klaue, popping the ‘p’ like a gum-chewing teenager.

“Not even a little bit? Not even, say…lasers? Repulsor jets? Good old fire?”

Klaue narrows his eyes. “No,” he answers. “Didn’t your daddy’s notes teach you all that?”

“Of course,” says Tony, pretending to be affronted. “I’m asking as a scientist, you know – pure idle curiosity. If I wanted to create a weapon that could beat vibranium, what would I do?”

“Thought you weren’t in the weapons business anymore,” Klaue says, a gleam in his eye.

“Pure idle curiosity,” Tony repeats, waving his hand. His heart is pounding. He’s starting to lose control of the conversation. “Come on, speculate with me.”

Klaue smirks. “I don’t have time to be your science buddy right now, much as I would like to continue the conversation. But I’ll give you a hint: years ago, someone wondered the very same thing, and rumor has it that the person figured out the answer. Now, we don’t have access to any files, of course – it was a top secret project. Shielded, you could say.” Klaue laughs. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out with that big beautiful brain of yours.”

Tony shoots Klaue an unimpressed look.

Klaue sighs and steps back, conceding defeat. “If you’re not buying today, I’ve got some appointments with other clients that I need to keep. I hate to cut this conversation short, but, well, business calls. You understand.”

“Indeed,” says Tony, still not moving from his lounging position. “I’ll contact you again if I need you.”

Klaue grins and winks, and then the screen goes black.

Tony grimaces. The interaction with Klaue feels like it’s left an oily residue all over his skin. He paces around the workshop for a minute, frustrated, then goes into the hallway, wandering aimlessly until he reaches the elevator.

“J, where’s Pepper?”

“Miss Potts is in the medical suite with Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes, Sir.”

“What? What’s she doing in there?” Tony asks, frowning.

“She is showing them how to use a tablet, Sir.”

“A tablet?”

“Yes, Sir,” JARVIS answers dryly. “It is an electronic device for –”

“I _know_ – hold on, that tablet’s not connected to the Internet, right?”

“No, Sir. I loaded documentaries, films, and e-books onto the tablet based on your preferences as well as suggestions from Dr. Banner, Dr. Cho, Agent Barton, Agent Romanoff, and Miss Potts. Dr. Cho, Dr. Banner, and Miss Potts gave approval for the final selection, which they believe will not aggravate any existing medical or psychological issues. The camera function is also working, but the tablet is not connected to any kind of cloud backup service.”

“Oh. Well, that’s good. J, take me to the medical suite, please.”

“Right away, Sir. I will inform them that you are coming.”

Pepper meets him at the elevator with a stern look, blocking the entrance to the medical suite with her arms crossed over her chest. “What are you doing down here, Tony?”

“Uh,” says Tony, “I was looking for you?” He gives her a hopeful look. “I’m taking a break from the workshop. Like you suggested.”

Pepper does not look impressed. “Well, if you have so much free time, then you can help me look in the Archives for notes on Steve’s shield,” she says, leading him back into the elevator and entering the security code for the floor that houses the Archives. “Leave Steve and Bucky alone.”

“What are they doing with the tablet, anyway?” Tony asks.

“They’ve just started watching the first _Lord of the Rings_ movie on it.”

“That’s a good ch –” The word dies on Tony’s lips. “Wait, backtrack. What did you say about the shield?”

Pepper waits until they’re out of the elevator and standing in front of the entrance to the Archives before answering. “The Smithsonian sent me an email saying they noted the outer two layers of Captain America’s shield had been melted down and replaced with a different metal. They asked me to look for any documents from your father that might explain this.”

She gestures for Tony to open the vault, and he does, his mind spinning. A bad feeling washes over him, just like it did in the HYDRA base, and it only increases as he heads toward the shelves housing his father’s notes on the shield. He pulls the box off the shelf and sorts through the files, looking for anything unusual, but all he sees are the same blueprints of the original shield and a long, dated list of damages from various missions in the 1940’s. The SSR had officially declared the shield lost with Captain America when the Valkyrie went down in 1945. S.H.I.E.L.D. had acquired it in 1964 when a group of Danish explorers found it off buried under an ice sheet in Greenland.

“But Cap went down with his shield,” Tony mutters to himself, running a hand through his hair. “So unless his body floated away from the shield – very possible – but if it was frozen – then less likely…okay, _if_ the shield was found with Cap at the same time, how the hell did Dad and Aunt Peggy get hold of the shield but _not_ Cap – unless, fuck, it was HYDRA, Romanoff said, and Greenland’s pretty close to Russia… JARVIS, hack into those S.H.I.E.L.D. databases for me and see what happened in the 1960s, please, and tell the spy kids to try to look over at the Triskelion too.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Tony? I think I’ve found something.” Pepper’s voice is coming from the other side of the cavernous room, and it sounds strained, almost scared.

Tony rushes over. “What? What is it?”

Pepper silently points to a battered red notebook with a black star. Tony picks it up, his heart jumping as he spots the HYDRA logo on the inside front cover. JARVIS quietly translates as Tony flips through the pages. The pages are all handwritten in Russian, and it is clear what they pertain to: there are diagrams of the cryostasis chamber, Barnes’ metal arm, and various instructions related to waking, thawing, and controlling Barnes, including a list of so-called “trigger words” meant to activate some kind of “Winter Soldier programming.”

“What is this doing here?” he says shakily.

“I don’t know. It was hidden in here.” She points to a water-stained 1970’s style leather briefcase with no label. “And that’s not all,” She pulls another notebook and places it on the table. This one is navy blue with a red star, and it looks neater and newer than the other.

Tony really doesn’t want to open it, but he does anyway. There’s another HYDRA logo on the inside front cover, and more handwritten Russian pages. There’s a diagram of the cryostasis chamber again, but instead of Barnes’ arm, there’s a drawing of Captain America’s shield, labeled arrows pointing at the small indentations between each ring. Tony turns the page and nearly swallows his tongue. In tiny, printed German, next to a series of notes on disassembling and reshaping vibranium, are sketches of four cuffs, and underneath them all are initials and a date: _“A.Z., July 1, 1965.”_

“J, can you search for the initials A.Z.? We’re looking for a German scientist with ties to HYDRA in the 1960’s.”

The next several pages are in German and discuss experiments on the super-soldier serum, including speculations on whether semen samples from “Subject 1” and “Subject 2” could be mixed to breed the ultimate super soldier. In the late 1970s there are a few notes about possibly changing the anatomy of “Subject 2” to be suitable for carrying a child, though those experiments were quickly deemed unsuccessful.

JARVIS says, “Sir. Arnim Zola was a former HYDRA scientist who worked closely with the Red Skull in World War II. He was recruited into the newly formed S.H.I.E.L.D. in 1949 as part of Operation Paperclip, a program in which S.H.I.E.L.D., or more accurately, its predecessor the Strategic Scientific Reserve, worked with the Office of Strategic Services to recruit over 1,500 German scientists, technicians and engineers with strategic value to work for the US Government. The S.H.I.E.L.D archives have several of Zola’s handwritten records and the handwriting is a 98% match with the records here.”  

_Shielded_ , Klaue had said, and Tony curses under his breath. “Fuck,” says Stark. “J. Did Dad know? Did he work with Zola?”

“I can find no S.H.I.E.L.D. files indicating any collaborations between your father and Arnim Zola, sir.”

Tony relaxes. “Okay. And Aunt Peggy? Did she work with him?”

“No files indicate any collaborations, Sir.”

Tony breathes out a sigh of relief and turns the page. Laid out in neat, abbreviated drawings, like the assembly instructions for an IKEA cabinet, are instructions to installing a tracker chip in a vibranium collar. The initials at the bottom of the page are _“H.A.W.S.”_ – as Howard Anthony Walter Stark – and the date is _“May 29, 1980_ ,” Tony’s tenth birthday, which Howard had missed because he was presumably searching for Captain America’s body.

Tony stares, frozen, and then he runs.

He hears Pepper calling out for him, but he can’t make out her words past the roaring in his ears. He’s in the elevator before he knows it, asking JARVIS to take him to the medical suite.

“I would strongly advise against visiting Sergeant Barnes and Captain Rogers, Sir,” says JARVIS. “They may not be able to help you the way you want them to.”

“I don’t care,” Tony gasps, lightheaded, and he sits down on the floor of the elevator. “J, I think I – I think I’m having a heart attack.”

“You are not, Sir,” says JARVIS, “but your vitals indicate that you may be having a panic attack. Shall I ask Miss Potts to meet you in your shared penthouse suite?”

“Yeah,” says Tony. His own voice sounds tinny in his ears. “Sure, J.”  

Pepper catches him as he stumbles out of the elevator, leading him to his favorite ugly orange armchair. Tony curls up in it, shivering. Pepper drapes a blanket over him and pushes a cup of tea into his hands, then perches on the armrest. “Can you take a deep breath?”

Tony almost spills the tea as Pepper coaches him through his breathing. It takes ten sets of breathing exercises for the buzzing in his ears to abate. When the world comes back into focus, he finds Pepper plucking the now-empty cup out of his hand and grasping his hand tightly, grounding him to the present.

“Are you with me?” she asks.

“Yeah,” Tony mutters. His skin is sticky with sweat, and it’s cooling his skin unpleasantly.

Pepper strokes a hand through his hair, and Tony relaxes into it with a sigh. “Tony, I saw what was in those notebooks,” she says, gently. “What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know,” Tony mumbles. “Rogers might not even know it was Dad who designed the tracker. And Dad might not have been the one to actually put it on. I could ask Rogers, but – what would be the point? Dad’s dead, the collar’s still on, and we still don’t know how to get it off. Why re-traumatize the kid? God, did I just call Captain America a kid?”

“You did,” says Pepper. “And you know, he might technically be younger than you.”

Tony moans. “Oh, God. Yet another mindfuck,” he whispers, and then he lets out a garbled laugh. “Is that why Dad tried to help them escape, what, eleven years later? He felt guilty? But why did he wait so fucking long?” He digs his fingers into his scalp, suddenly furious. His father’s shadow – in life and death - dominated his whole childhood and a great deal of his early adulthood, but he thought that after all the crap that had gone down with Obie and the Ten Rings, followed by that unsuccessful but very damaging revenge attempt by Ivan Vanko, he was finally free of his father’s sins. He was wrong – he _is_ wrong - and he _hates_ it.

He just wants to be Tony Stark. He’s tired of being Howard Stark’s son.

“Tony,” says Pepper. “Breathe.”

“I’m so tired, Pep,” he whispers. The fury drains out of him, leaving exhaustion in its wake.

“I know.” Pepper kisses the top of his head, stroking the back of his neck. “Do you want me to call Rhodey and ask him to fly out for a visit?”

Tony is tempted by the offer. Seeing his best friend would be a huge balm to his soul, as cheesy as that sounds. But he also doesn’t know how to explain why Captain America and Bucky Barnes are living in his tower, or the fact that his parents died trying to save them, or that his father might have been complicit in their torture. He also really doesn’t want to go into the fact that HYDRA has possibly infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D. Rhodey has a legitimate high-impact position in the U.S. government, which he both enjoys and deserves, and Tony doesn’t want to drag him into all of this. Not yet.

He tells Pepper as much, and she frowns at him.

“Fine,” she says, “but I reserve the right to call him if I think either your life or your sanity is in imminent danger. Any more than usual, anyway.”

“You got it,” says Tony, and he pulls her into his lap for a kiss. Pepper smiles against his lips, and Tony’s mind drifts into a soft, pleasant haze. They stay like that for a while, kissing and petting, until JARVIS says, “I am sorry to interrupt, Sir, and Miss Potts, but Dr. Cho and Dr. Banner have requested an update from Sir about the prosthetic. Shall I tell them that you are busy?”

Tony sighs. “No, J, tell them I’m coming to meet them in the workshop. Oh, and can you let the spy kids know that we found some important information about HYDRA from Dad’s notes? I don’t want to send anything since S.H.I.E.L.D. might be dirty, but I’ll tell them about the notebooks once they’re back.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Pepper stands and smooths out her shirt. “I’ll check in on Steve and Bucky and then order some dinner for the team. I’m thinking Vietnamese, with some pho for Steve and Bucky to try if Bruce says it’s okay to eat.”

“I want pho,” Tony grumbles.

Pepper lightly smacks his shoulder. “I’ll order extra, then. Come on, they’re waiting.”

* * *

“Guys, we’re almost there.” Bruce gestures excitedly to the diagram of the arm, briefly throwing a shadow over Helen’s face. “The nerve wirings are finished – Helen and I double-checked those while you were gone, Tony – and once the outer casing is finished, we’ll be ready to do the surgery.”

“Hold up, Green Giant,” says Tony. “What about testing the prosthetic itself? You know, before we put it on a human being?”

Bruce blinks and pauses. “That’s a good idea, Tony.”

“No need to sound so surprised,” Tony says, grumpily. “I would’ve loved to test my arc reactor to make sure it wasn’t going to poison me if I weren’t, you know, being held hostage by a terrorist organization in a cave.”

“That’s a good point,” says Bruce, giving Tony an apologetic look. “So, once you finish that outer cover, we’ll do functional testing like you suggested, then do the surgery after we get consent from Barnes.”

“I’ve also been working on a sort of…skin cover for the arm with the Cradle,” Helen says, dragging in another window and showing them a model of a long, flesh-covered sleeve with several annotations. “It’ll make the arm and its attachments look like a natural part of Barnes’ body instead of that conspicuous metal. I don’t know if he’ll want it, but I thought it’d be nice to give him the option. We can put it on permanently using the Cradle, or we can make something removable.”

“I never even thought of that,” says Bruce, his eyes wide. “That’s brilliant.”

Helen flushes a little at the praise. “You’re welcome. I’m no psychologist, but a few patients have told me that they only feel like they’ve truly recovered when they end up looking the same as before. Barnes hasn’t had any control over how he’s looked in decades, especially with the metal arm, and – I thought it’d be nice.”

Bruce nods. “Tony, do you have any other updates?”

Tony hesitates, trying to figure out what to say, then answers, “Blondie’s, I mean Cap’s, vibranium problem. I’ve got some notes, and I think I might be able to reverse-engineer the cuffs and collar and get them off him. No promises, but – uh, it’s a start.”

Helen and Bruce exchange a look. “Well, it’s better than our solution,” says Bruce.

“Which was…?”

“Cutting off Rogers’ hands and then reattaching them using the Cradle after removing the cuff,” Helen says with a wince. “Same thing with his ankles.”

Tony blanches. “Really? And what about his head?”

“We, uh, we hadn’t gotten that far yet,” says Bruce. “And we weren’t going to try it unless there was no other way.”

“It was Rogers who actually suggested it,” says Helen, tentatively, like she’s not sure she should be telling him this. “He said HYDRA used to experiment on him like that. They would, um, cut off his parts of his fingers or toes and watch to see how long they took to grow back. Which they did, eventually. Seems like HYDRA never tried major limbs, though.”

“What the _fuck_ ,” says Tony, utterly disturbed. “Okay, well. Don’t worry. I’ll find a way to get those suckers off.”

“We’ll help,” says Bruce. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

Tony almost feels like he does to make up for his father, but that’s an unhealthy coping mechanism according to his therapy books, so he waves a hand and says, “Okay. Sure.”

Helen’s stomach grumbles loudly then, and she makes an embarrassed face. “Sorry. Ordinary human here. Dinner?” she says hopefully.

“J, what’s the status on the food?” Tony turns back to Helen and Bruce. “It’s Vietnamese, by the way.”

“It is on its way, sir.”

“Great. Common floor on floor fifty-seven okay for everyone?”

“Lead the way,” says Bruce.

“Doctor Banner, Miss Potts would like to know if Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes are cleared to begin eating light meals like the pho she ordered,” says JARVIS.

“Oh,” says Bruce, looking surprised. “Yeah, I think that should be fine. Why don’t I deliver the food to them directly? They might not know what pho is and I’d like to see how they’re doing anyway.”

“I shall inform them of this plan,” says JARVIS. “Miss Potts will pick up the food and take it to the common room shortly. She has just left the medical suite, and she would like to inform you all that Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes greatly enjoyed watching the extended version of _The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring_.”

“What a good choice,” Helen says fervently. “Now I want to watch it again.”

“Just ask JARVIS, he’ll put it on for you,” says Tony.

“I would, but I’ll probably fall straight asleep after dinner,” says Helen with a sigh. “It’s been a long day.”

“You tell me,” Tony says. “J, take us up, please.”

The elevator doors close behind them, and they ride in silence to the common floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the wonderful support so far! I'm happy to announce that the story has now been outlined to the very end. Now it's just a matter of writing the chapters.


	7. Bruce, part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce shares a relaxing meal with Steve and Bucky. Bucky meets his surgeon and gets a new arm. The medical suite gets some visitors.

Bruce quietly hums to himself, breathing in the delicious scent of pho as he rides down to the medical suite. He’s carrying one small serving of vegetarian pho for himself, two small servings of _pho ga_ (Vietnamese chicken noodle soup), and of course, compostable napkins, bowls, and utensils all packaged in a recyclable bag. Usually when he’s at Stark Tower – Avengers Tower, he corrects himself mentally - Bruce doesn’t take the time to look around and really appreciate Stark Industries’ green energy efforts; he tends to get too caught up in the whirlwind of Tony’s alternating ingenuity and volatility. These past few days have been different. Helen is methodical and careful about completing a project, and it’s been refreshing to have a pseudo-stable nine-to-five job with milestones he can actually remember.

When the elevator doors open, Bruce stops abruptly at the sound of a male voice with an English accent. At first he thinks it’s JARVIS, but then a surprised smile steals across his face as he recognizes Stephen Fry’s audiobook narration of the first _Harry Potter_ novel. It seems that Bucky and Steve are fantasy and science fiction fans.

Bruce knocks on the door to their room and pushes the door open a little. Steve and Bucky peer up at him from a spooning position in the bed, startled, and immediately start scrambling up to a sitting position. Steve gasps a little and almost drops the tablet as he jams the pause button on the screen.

“It’s okay,” says Bruce quickly, both to them and to the Hulk, who’s woken up with interest. “It’s fine, you can keep it playing. I’m sorry for interrupting. I – um – I brought dinner?” He holds up the pho containers. “It’s Vietnamese style soup, and it should go easy on the stomach as well as give you guys some much needed protein.” He gestures to a rolling side table that doubles as a tray. It currently holds a half-empty pack of Saltines and two containers of applesauce. “May I?”

Steve blinks and nods, still clutching the tablet. Bucky makes a sign that could vaguely be interpreted as “yes.” Bruce slowly pulls out the containers and begins dishing out the pho in a bowl, keeping his eyes on the food while they shuffle around on the bed and pull themselves up.

“I’m vegetarian, so I got the tofu one,” he says, as he takes his bowl and places it next to the sink, “but Pepper ordered chicken for you. I’m optimistic that you’ll be able to keep it down, and if you do, then we can gradually start transitioning you both to more and more solid foods.” He rolls the tray in front of them, adjusts the height, and places spoons, forks, and napkins on the side. “There you go. Go ahead. Eat slowly – it’s hot.”

Steve and Bucky both watch Bruce eat a few bites of his own soup before poking at their bowls. Bucky is the first to try it. He stabs at a piece of chicken, his hand only shaking a little as he brings it to his mouth. His eyes widen in pleasure, and he makes a muted noise of surprise and nudges Steve. Steve nudges him back, then carefully spoons some soup into his mouth.

 _“Good_ ,” signs Steve, his face suffusing with surprised pleasure. _“Thank you._ ”

“You’re welcome. Do you mind if I stay here and eat with you? I can also eat in the waiting room at the end of the hall and you can come and get me when you’re done.”

Steve frowns and stares hard at his soup like it’s a crystal ball that will give him answers. Bucky drops his spoon and sucks on his lower lip, glancing at Bruce nervously.

“Sorry,” says Bruce, half-rising. “I can, um –”

Steve’s hands fly up. “ _No. Sorry. Please stay.”_ Steve shakes his head, then looks up with an embarrassed smile. “ _You - good - company.”_

“Oh,” says Bruce. “Okay. I mean, I don’t have to. Just because I’m your acting physician doesn’t mean you have to feel obligated to put up with me, especially when I’m not doing anything medically related.”

Steve shakes his head more insistently now, jutting out his chin. _“Not obligation.”_ And then he forcibly gestures toward Bruce’s soup, almost knocking his own bowl over. _“Please eat.”_

“Okay,” says Bruce, feeling oddly touched by the gesture, and he sits back down. “Thanks.”

Bucky picks up the tablet and looks between Bruce and Steve hopefully. Steve’s lips twitch upward, and he pretends not to see. Bucky huffs and turns to Bruce instead with a pleading gaze.

It takes Bruce a minute to figure out what Bucky’s asking. “Oh. Oh! Sorry. Do you want to continue the audiobook?”

Bucky nods.

“Sure. Go ahead.”

Bucky grins and presses play, then carefully sets the tablet down on his lap before going back to his food. Bruce relaxes as Stephen Fry’s voice takes him away to Hogwarts.

It takes Steve an hour to finish all the pho, and Bucky a little more than that. Bruce waits until the chapter finishes before clearing his throat. Steve and Bucky blink sleepily at him. They’ve been gradually sinking down into the bed as a food coma overtakes them. Bruce almost lets them complete the process, but he has a feeling they’ll appreciate what he’s about to offer.

“Hey, guys. I know you’re tired, but would you like a bath? If you’d like I can set up one in the large bathroom next door. Or a shower -” Bucky and Steve both flinch. “Never mind, a bath it is. I’ll help if you need it, but otherwise I’ll just wait and check on you when you’re done. You can each take a bath separately or do it together.” He wouldn’t normally suggest such a thing, but Steve and Bucky have been inseparable since they arrived. At some point their codependency will need to be addressed, but it’s not actively harming them yet.

Steve and Bucky look at each other, then back at Bruce, and nod. _“Bath - good. Together,_ ” Steve signs, a little more slowly than usual. He rubs his eyes and moves to get out of the bed, tugging a little on Bucky’s wrist.

“I’ll go get that started.”

Bruce had rolled his eyes when Tony told him he’d installed a huge bathtub in the men’s common bathroom, but he couldn’t be more grateful for it now. (The women’s bathroom also got its own bathtub, mostly customized to Natasha’s taste). Bruce grabs the bag of bath supplies stashed in the lab and then begins running the water. It heats instantly, almost to the point of burning, and Bruce quickly runs cold water over it until it’s just a little bit hotter than lukewarm.

When he turns around, he finds Steve and Bucky at the door frame, clutching fresh sets of clothes and watching him silently. Bruce hides his startlement and forcibly pushes an excited, suddenly awoken Hulk back down. “Hey, guys. Come test the temperature.”

Steve and Bucky don’t move. Bruce takes a step away and positions himself harmlessly against the wall so that they’re out of his reach. Something tells him that they’ve probably had experience being held underwater against their will, to put it lightly, and he wants to make sure this is a comfortable experience for them.

Steve and Bucky edge along the wall until they reach the tub. Steve cautiously pokes the water with one finger, his eyebrows rising in surprise. Bucky’s brow furrows as he trails his fingers across the water.

“Is the temperature okay?” asks Bruce.

They nod.

“Great. Bucky, is it okay for me to come over and wrap your arm?”

Bucky nods. Steve perches on the lip of the tub, watching Bruce like a hawk as he covers the remains of Bucky’s arm with special waterproof plastic designed by Tony.  “It’ll be okay for you to get some of the arm wet, but we’re worried about the ends with the exposed wires,” Bruce explains, wrapping a band around the plastic to keep it in place. “There. You’re all set. I’ll give you some privacy. I’m going to have JARVIS alert me if you’re in distress, but otherwise you won’t be monitored.”

 _“Thank you_ ,” signs Steve.

Bruce smiles. “You’re welcome. Take your time. Is it okay for me to change the sheets while you’re in the bath?”

Steve nods. Bruce waits to get a nod from Bucky too before heading out.

Bruce takes the down time to tidy up the lab. He places covers over Helen and Tony’s customized imaging machines and rolls them into a corner, then he clears the bench space and makes sure everything has been disposed of properly. He carefully stows Steve and Bucky’s remaining biological samples in a special freezer with custom voice-activated recognition codes, and then he reviews their makeshift clinical charts one more time.

Both Steve and Bucky seem to be healing from their physical injuries at a steady rate, and Bruce is optimistic about getting them back to a steady diet. Their STI results all came back negative, which is a relief. Both of them will probably need speech therapy. Their vocal cords are still present and appear to be physically unharmed, but between Steve’s conditioning from the collar, Bucky’s primary and secondary trauma, and the surgery to both their frontal lobes, they probably haven’t had the will, opportunity, or ability to speak for an extremely long time. Their psychological and psychiatric recovery is going to be long and intense, and it is undoubtedly tied to the recovery of their voice and their overall function. Bruce and Helen both agree that Bucky’s seizures from the first night were probably psychogenic – trauma-induced rather than an abnormal electrical discharge – and Bruce hopes that the safe, stable environment of the medical suite has allowed the seizures to stop.

Steve seems to be pretty limber at this point, but Bucky will likely need physical therapy after he gets his new arm. Bruce has been asking them both to walk up and down the hallways periodically as a form of physical therapy, and of course they’ve been making it to the ensuite bathroom on their own, but Bucky still seems unbalanced by having only one arm. Bruce hopes that getting a new and lighter arm will help with that. The arm itself is almost finished; the main problem now is attaching it to Bucky’s body. Pepper and Helen are working together to reach out to Stephen Strange, an acclaimed neurosurgeon whose ego reportedly rivals Tony’s. Strange and Tony are either going to get along like a house on fire – or be the ones that make the house implode.

“JARVIS, how are Steve and Bucky doing in there?” Bruce asks.

“They do not seem to be in any great distress, Dr. Banner. In fact, their vital signs indicate that they are in a more relaxed state than they have ever been since entering the Tower, including the previous periods when they were sleeping.”

“Wow,” says Bruce. He knows baths are therapeutic – he always tries to take one after being the Hulk, to soothe both his muscles and his brain - but he didn’t realize just effective they could be for Bucky and Steve. Upon further reflection, he realizes that this might be the first time that they’ve been able to really clean themselves in private without fear of getting assaulted, drowned, or waterboarded. The Hulk stirs inside of Bruce as his thoughts stray to the torture described so clinically in the HYDRA files. He forces himself to take several deep, long breaths until the anger has passed.

Bruce enters Steve and Bucky’s room and makes quick work of replacing the linens and the garbage bag, which is filled with Saltine wrappers, banana peels, applesauce cups, and now compostable bowls with pho residue. The rest of the room is immaculate. Two notebooks and a collection of soft-leaded No. 2 pencils are stacked neatly on the nightstand on the far side of the room. On the other nightstand sits the tablet, plugged in and charging. Neat, folded stacks of sweatpants, t-shirts, boxers, and socks are sit on the corner of the little bench near the window. The Manhattan skyline gleams brightly in the night sky, offset slightly by the soft overhead lights.

Bruce turns and peeks into the small attached bathroom. Two toothbrushes – one green, one yellow – lie on the shelf above the mirror, next to a tube of toothpaste, a small container of floss, a bottle of shaving cream, and two brand-new safety razors. Bruce blinks and frowns. Neither of the men has actually grown facial or body hair even though they’ve been in the Tower for over a week. Bruce makes a mental note to investigate that later.

He’s gathering up the dirty sheets from the floor when a torn piece of white paper drifts down onto his shoes. Bruce hesitantly picks it up. Written in shaky, childish, half-smeared script are the same letters over and over:

_B U  CK    Y_

_BU    C       K       Y_

_B   UC     KY_

_B          UCK       Y_

_BUCKY_

Bruce stares at it, simultaneously saddened and amazed. Pepper had mentioned seeing Steve picking up a pencil, but she had said nothing about Bucky. Not that he should assume that this is Bucky’s handwriting. It could be Steve’s.

Bruce eyes the notebooks next to the bed, burning with the temptation to peek inside. A muted gasp behind him draws his attention. Bucky, now dressed in a clean set of grey sweats, is staring at the page in his hand, white with terror as he clutches the doorframe. Steve appears from behind him and immediately places himself between Bucky and Bruce, clenching his hands into fists and glaring at Bruce in challenge.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have looked,” says Bruce. “It fell out when I was taking the sheets off the bed. Here.” He holds out the paper in Bucky and Steve’s general direction. “It’s yours.”

Bucky stares at him, trembling a little, and then stumbles forward. He snatches the page out of Bruce’s hand, crumpling it a little as he clutches it close to his chest. The monitor in the corner flashes red in warning as Bucky’s heart beat starts to pick up.

Guilt at ruining the relaxing evening immediately snuffs out Bruce’s curiosity about the writing. “It’s all right. I’m not angry,” he says quietly. He almost laughs and says, “You’d know if I’m angry,” then quickly decides that it’s neither the time nor place to tell them about the Hulk. Instead, he turns and grabs a laundry bin from the corner, stuffing the sheets into it as Steve and Bucky slip into the room. “I’ll leave you two alone for the night. JARVIS will keep an eye on your vitals and let me know if there’s an emergency. Can I get you anything else before I go?”

Steve meets Bruce’s gaze and shakes his head. There’s still defiance in his eyes, but it’s fading slowly into exhaustion. Bruce glances at Bucky, who darts a glance upward, shakes his head, and then looks back down at the floor.

“Okay. Good night, guys.” Bruce pauses, choosing his words carefully. “Before I go, um, I want to make something clear. You are allowed to do what you want here. Write. Read. Even talk. You’re never going to be punished for…well, anything. Not for keeping things private, or for making a mistake, or for disagreeing with us, or for communicating in any way.”

Steve nods. Bucky, however, is obviously confused.

“I’m not asking you to believe me right away. It’s going to take time, and all of this is a lot to take in. But I, um, I wanted to put it out there. We’re doing our best to make sure that this is a safe environment for you to recover, and I don’t just mean physically.”

Bucky makes a soft noise of acknowledgement. Steve rubs his arm gently.

Bruce takes that as his cue to leave. “Good night,” he says, and he makes for the hallway without looking back.

* * *

Stephen Strange arrives a week later to operate on Bucky after signing a ream’s worth of nondisclosure agreements personally hand-delivered by Pepper.

Helen leads Strange to the medical suite after an explosive confrontation with Tony in the shared workshop, where Helen, Tony, and Bruce had been demonstrating the new arm’s capabilities and presenting the plan for operation. Bruce ducked out as soon as things started getting heated, and shortly after he left, the conversation had apparently devolved into pointless one-upmanship between Strange and Tony. They were at it for ten minutes before Pepper appeared (at Helen’s covert request) to pull Tony away to deal with “corporate SI matters.”

Neither Strange nor Helen looks particularly happy when they step off the elevator.

“Nice of you to rejoin us, Dr. Banner,” says Strange. Helen rolls her eyes behind his back.

“Well, you know, I didn’t see any reason to turn into – as Tony once delicately put it – a giant green rage monster, especially with such rare and vital technology lying around,” Bruce says, forcing his voice into a mild, measured tone. “Why don’t Dr. Cho and I let Steve and Bucky know that you’re coming? Please wait here.”

Helen groans quietly as they walk down the hall. “He’s infuriating,” she mutters under her breath.

 “I’m sorry I left you alone. I really didn’t want to run the risk -”

Helen shakes her head. “No, no. I understand. It’s not that. I just – really, really hate arrogant white American men, especially in medicine, who think they know better than everyone else. To go through life with that kind of arrogance…what privilege you must have! No offense meant to you, of course.”

“None taken,” says Bruce, giving her a sympathetic look. “I used to be one of those men, and I ended up turning myself into the Hulk. Karma comes around, I guess.”

Steve pokes his head out of the room at their approach. “ _Hello_ ,” he greets.

“Hi, Steve. Is Bucky awake yet?”

Steve nods and gestures for them to come in. Bucky is sitting on the padded bench along the far wall, his posture relaxed as he stares out the window. The sky is hazy today, but the medical suite is high enough in the Tower that there is still a birds-eye view of the skyline. Bucky straightens and swings his legs off the bench when he spots them. He cautiously signs, _“Hello_ ,” as Steve slips onto the bench next to him.  

“Good morning, Bucky,” says Helen, smiling.

Bucky tentatively smiles back.

“Oh, wait, don’t tell me,” says a dry voice from behind Bruce. “The one with the missing arm is the patient.”

Strange is at the door, tapping his fingers against the frame impatiently. Bucky tenses under Strange’s scrutiny. At his side, Steve juts out his chin and glares.

 “I don’t usually meet my patients when they’re awake, but Cho and Banner insisted. I’m Dr. Stephen Strange, your surgeon for tomorrow. I’ve won a bunch of awards, and I don’t make mistakes. Here’s the deal.  Op time is 0700 tomorrow. Be awake. You should have started fasting, oh, two hours ago. We’ll start from your clavicle and work our way downward. I won’t bore you with the details since you won’t understand anyway. I’m expecting the process to take all day, at least twelve hours, likely twenty, but it won’t matter anyway because you’ll be under general anesthesia -”

Bucky’s hair whips across his face as he shakes his head roughly. Strange halts and raises an eyebrow.

Bucky hunches his shoulders and lifts his hand. _“No drugs.”_

“Excuse me?” Strange says incredulously.

Bucky bites his lip nervously and repeats, _“No drugs. Please.”_

Strange turns his disbelieving glare to Helen and Bruce.

 “Let’s step outside for a moment,” says Helen.

The door to the lab has barely finished closing before Strange is whirling on them. “He has to get the anesthesia. I refuse to operate otherwise. What kind of third-world facility are you running h–”

“His accelerated cellular generation may make anesthesia ineffective,” Helen interrupts. “His files from captivity don’t give us enough information to evaluate his reactions.”

“I think we should respect his wishes. You know, bodily autonomy and all,” says Bruce, still keeping his mild tone. He can feel the anger simmering underneath. Inside him, the Hulk gears up to exact justice. Bruce tells him to take a damn nap.   

“Autonomy? At the expense of his own care?” Strange shoots back furiously.

“What about regional anesthesia?” says Helen. “Maybe for his shoulder?”

Strange sneers. “If you don’t think general will work, what makes you think regional will?”

Twin spots of red appear high on Helen’s cheeks. “Do you have any real solutions or are you just going to shoot down everything we propose?”

Strange opens his mouth, probably to spit out an insulting comeback, but he’s cut off by JARVIS. “Excuse me, doctors, but your patients seem to be getting increasingly distressed. If I may, I would suggest returning to them at once to avoid causing undue harm.”

Bruce’s stomach clenches with guilt. The anger drops from Helen’s face, and even Strange’s expression smooths out into something neutral. “Thank you, JARVIS.”

Bucky’s still sitting on the bench when they return. He’s buried his face in his knees, which are drawn up to his chest, and his vitals are climbing steadily. Steve is alternating between trying to comfort him and pacing a line between Bucky and the door. He glances up and plants himself defensively in front of Bucky as they enter the room.

“Sorry about that,” says Bruce. “We’re not mad at you. We were just discussing, um, alternatives to anesthesia.”

“Why don’t we all sit down?” Helen suggests, quickly rolling out a stool from underneath the sink. She directs Strange to a chair against the wall on the other side of the bed. Bruce takes the one adjacent to it. Steve’s eyes flicker toward the door, then the clear path to it, and he relaxes minutely. He perches next to Bucky and rubs Bucky’s arm, assessing each of them with a narrowed gaze oddly reminiscent of Natasha. 

“Bucky, could you look at us, please?” asks Helen gently.

Bucky slowly lifts his head and meets their eyes from underneath a curtain of hair. He looks sick with fear.

“Dr. Strange is – um – concerned about you not receiving anesthesia. There are a lot of reasons anesthesia is usually administered during a surgery: to prevent someone from feeling pain, to keep the heart beat stable, and to keep the body steady so that there’s no unexpected movement that might cause damage. We realize that anesthesia might not work very well on you because of the serum in your blood, but we’re not sure if there are safe alternatives. It’s really important that you keep calm and still during the operation so that your blood pressure and your position don’t change unexpectedly. Can you help us figure out a way to make that happen?”

Bucky slowly breathes in and out, biting his lip as he stares at the ground with a furrowed brow. Strange fidgets impatiently next to Bruce, tapping his fingers against his thigh over and over. Bruce ignores him, but Steve’s eyes focus in on him like a laser.

“We could administer regional anesthesia that only numbs the left side of your body, so you don’t feel pain during the operation but can still stay awake,” Bruce suggests. “Again, we’re not sure how the serum might affect it, but we’re willing to try.”

Bucky inhales sharply, his eyes darting around the room. His heart beat and breathing start to accelerate with the beginnings of a panic attack, or possibly a seizure. Steve’s eyes widen and he takes Bucky’s hand, gripping it tightly as if to keep him grounded.

Bruce slowly leans forward, frantically trying to recall any psychosocial strategies from his training, but it’s Helen who breaks the silence. “Bucky, how about this? If you did get anesthesia, would you prefer number one, general – where you’d be completely unconscious – or number two, regional, where you’d still be conscious but wouldn’t feel the part we’re working on?”

It takes Bucky a minute to free his hand from Steve’s grip. He looks at Helen nervously and slowly raises two fingers.

“Okay, so you’d prefer regional. Would you rather have number one, regional anesthesia, or number two, no anesthesia at all?”

Bucky raises one finger.

“I think you have your answer, Dr. Strange. Regional anesthesia it is.”

Bucky nods anxiously, turning pleading eyes towards Strange.

Strange rubs his temples and mutters grimly, “Fine. That covers the anesthesia. What about sedation? Minimal, moderate, or deep?”

Bucky frowns, confused, and looks up at the ceiling. He crooks his pinky in a curve. _"J?"_

JARVIS answers, “During minimal sedation, you will feel relaxed, and you may be awake. You can understand and answer questions and will be able to follow your physician's instructions. Let us call that option number one. When receiving moderate sedation, you will feel drowsy and may even sleep through much of the procedure, but will be easily awakened when spoken to. You may or may not remember being in the operating room. That is option number two. During deep sedation, you will sleep through the procedure with little or no memory of the procedure room. Your breathing can slow, and you might be sleeping until the medications wear off. That is option number three.”

Bucky exhales slowly. After a long moment, he lifts one finger.

Strange grimaces. “That is the very last option I’d recommend –”

Bruce coughs quietly.

Strange throws his arms up in the air. Bucky flinches minutely. “Fine! On your own head be it! Stark and Potts promised to cover any liability, anyway. Don’t sue me if this goes wrong.”

Bucky hunches his shoulders and looks away. Steve rubs his arm for a few seconds, and then he stands, straightens his shoulders, and catches Strange’s eye. In jerky movements, he signs, “ _I stay - with - him - during surgery. We stay together. Always.”_

Srange attempts to stare Steve down, but Steve stubbornly refuses to fold. Strange rolls his eyes. “You can be in the room. In the corner. Watching and not touching anything, like a good little med student.”

 _“Beside - bed,”_ Steve counters, setting his jaw like he’s Captain America again. _“With Bucky.”_

“Fine,” Strange says, exasperated. “Just do exactly what I tell you and don’t get in the way.”

Steve gives Strange an unimpressed look. _“Of course. Doctor.”_ Sarcasm bleeds through Steve’s signing, and Bruce hides a smirk.

The next morning dawns bright and early. At 6:00, Bruce begins leading Steve and Bucky through meditative breathing exercises as Helen, Strange, and Pepper prepare the operating room. By the time 7:00 rolls around, Bucky’s as calm as he’s going to get. His hand shakes in Steve’s as they walk to the operating room and his vitals are slightly increased, but he’s not at risk of having an adverse event before the whole operation even starts.

Pepper meets them at the door. “Good morning, Bucky. Dr. Cho and Dr. Strange are ready to start. Dr. Banner and Steve will assist them, and Tony and I will be on call in the next room, keeping an eye on your vital signs and ready to jump in for any extra assistance. Do you have any questions before you go in?”

Bucky shakes his head.

Pepper nods and lowers her voice. “Before we start, I want to make sure of one thing. Are you ready to go through with this? You are allowed to say no.”

Bucky nods once, pale but determined.

“Okay. I’ll see you on the other side, all right? You’re going to do great.” Pepper opens the door, holding it open while they file in, and lets it swing shut behind her.

Bruce pulls on scrubs, a surgical mask, a surgical cap, and shoe covers as Steve helps Bucky disrobe and get into a hospital gown. When Steve has finished scrubbing in, they enter the operating theater. Bruce immediately pulls on gloves, and Steve follows suit reluctantly before getting Bucky settled onto the padded operating table. Steve gently turns Bucky’s head to the right, leaving access to the metal arm on the other side, and then takes up position on a stool so that he’s filling Bucky’s entire field of vision.

Strange and Helen, who have been hovering at the periphery of the room, move in along with Bruce. Bucky follows Steve’s example of deep, slow breaths as Bruce, Strange, and Helen sterilize Bucky’s skin and start administering nerve blocks. Bruce quietly warns Bucky each time before they poke him. When they’re finished, Strange tests Bucky’s responses. Bucky doesn’t seem to feel anything or be able to move, which is a good sign for the rest of the operation.

Bucky’s breath hitches as he sees a flash of silver in his peripheral vision. Strange is arranging instruments, preparing to make an incision along his scarred collarbone. Steve glances over, pales a little, then forcibly turns his eyes back to Bucky’s face. He strokes his gloved thumb over Bucky’s wrist, soothing, giving Bucky a shaky smile to keep Bucky’s attention on him.

“Deep breaths, Bucky,” Helen reminds softly as she hands Strange a scalpel. “You too, Steve. You’re both doing great. Bucky, remember what we talked about. Raise your hand if you start to feel anything. Flap your wrist if you start to feel any pain. Blink once for yes, twice for no. Do you understand?”

One blink.

“Are you in any pain right now?”

Two blinks.

“Does your left side – from your shoulder to the base of your spine – feel numb?”

One blink.

“Okay,” Helen breathes. “Good.” She reviews the signs with him one more time, then continues to assist Strange.

Bucky raises his hand an hour and a half later, right in the middle of the removal of his metal bicep. The pain sets in hard and fast, and his wrist flaps frantically as his breath gets unsteady and his blood pressure rises.  Steve tries to demonstrate deep, exaggerated breaths as Helen and Bruce scramble to administer sedative through the IV in Bucky’s flesh arm.

“You, Blondie, come here,” Strange barks at Steve.

Steve jumps off the stool at once and dashes to the other side of the bed. Strange instructs Steve to hold the ultrasound probe just above Bucky’s exposed, bleeding clavicle as Strange slowly threads a needle through Bucky’s neck. Bucky gives a little gasp and twitches a half-second later. “Got it,” mutters Strange, and he carefully injects the anesthetic. The sedative starts to kick in then, and the room as a whole lets out an audible sigh of relief as Bucky’s vitals go back to baseline. Steve quickly schools his face into a gentle smile as he returns to Bucky’s line of sight.

The rest of the surgery goes well. When the next 90-minute mark hits, they’re prepared to move more quickly. Bucky actually dozes off an hour afterward, leading Helen to worry that she overdosed him with sedative somehow, but his vitals – and Steve – reassure her that he probably just fell asleep from exhaustion. _“Bad dream,_ ” Steve explains.

In total, the operation lasts fourteen hours – two hours over Bruce and Helen’s estimate, but well below Strange’s. Tony comes in halfway through to assist Strange with hooking up the arm to Bucky’s nervous system and spine. Whatever animosity exists between him and Strange dissipates in the face of a complicated high-risk surgery. Throughout, Steve keeps to his post by Bucky’s side like a sentry, watching over Bucky even when he’s unconscious. Strange doesn’t call Steve away for assistance again.

It’s dark outside by the time Pepper comes to help clean up the operating theater alongside the rest of the team. An hour passes before Steve, Helen, and Bruce quietly scrub out of the theater. Through the glass window, they watch as Strange, Tony, and Pepper gently transfer Bucky’s body onto a new hospital bed. The metal arm gleams even under the fluorescent lights. Helen will attach the camouflage skin cover later when the metal has fully integrated into Bucky’s body.

Bucky wakes up with a gasp as they wheel his bed down the hall. Steve immediately grasps his flesh hand, turning Bucky’s attention to himself. Bucky blinks hazily, his brow furrowing as he tries to look around him. Steve gently rubs his thumb against Bucky’s wrist, leans over Bucky, and lifts his other hand. _“S-A-F-E.”_ Bucky sighs and closes his eyes, drifting off once more.

Bruce helps Steve position Bucky’s bed against the wall. It’s not the same one Steve and Bucky have been sharing – it’s only big enough for one person – but Bruce suspects Steve will find a way to make it fit them both anyway, even though he has a separate bed right next to it. Bruce sets up an IV line for the painkillers that Bucky had agreed to yesterday after the heated discussion about anesthesia. Bruce reiterates the instructions to Steve, who nods and thanks him distractedly, then starts fussing with Bucky’s blanket.

“It’s been a long day, so try to get some rest, too,” Bruce says quietly. “Good night, Steve.”

Bruce walks back down the hall alone. The rest of the team must have already gone back up to their suites. He’s pondering whether he should eat a full meal or just a snack to tide him over till morning when a loud crash from the direction of the elevator echoes throughout the hall. Bruce runs, skidding around the corner, and then halts in shock.

Clint Barton squints up at him from the floor through two black eyes and a swollen face. He’s got one arm around Natasha, who’s unconscious and is bleeding from a nasty gash on her abdomen. The other arm is wrapped around a tall black man with an eye patch who’s clearly been shot in the chest. It takes Bruce a moment to place him: it’s Nick Fury, the director of S.H.I.E.L.D. who recruited him for the Avengers.

“Hey, doc,” Clint rasps, grimacing. “We’ve been c-compromised. Little help?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> STI = sexually transmitted infection
> 
> Disclaimer: I am not an anesthesiologist. I did my best to make this accurate within the context of Bucky's serum. [Here](https://www.asra.com/page/41/regional-anesthesia-for-surgery) is the main source I used for research.
> 
> Also, a neurosurgeon may not have the same skills as a general surgeon, vascular surgeon, or cardiac surgeon. Ideally, for a complex surgery like this, a patient would receive care from an interdisciplinary team of specialists, including an anesthesiologist, plus a whole bevy of nurses and other assistants. (I shadowed in an OR once - you would not believe the sheer number of people involved in an operation.) I'm writing this off as Marvel universe magic, Stephen Strange's ingenious skills, and extreme confidentiality concerns regarding Steve and Bucky's existence.


	8. Natasha, part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened at the S.H.I.E.L.D. offices before Natasha reached the Tower, and what happened after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note additional warnings: misogynistic language, sexual harrassment

Natasha and Clint spend a week back at S.H.I.E.L.D. before everything goes to hell.

The first thing they do is a long-overdue debrief about the mission to the HYDRA base. Neither of them mentions Rogers or Barnes in the official report, per the unanimous Avengers agreement to keep the two men a secret. Instead, they simply report that the files they gathered described HYDRA’s attempts to create technology out of the Tesseract, including the “long human-sized tube for organic preservation” (Bucky’s cryotube) that Erik Selvig and Jane Foster are now studying in their lab.

Natasha does meet with Fury privately outside of the Triskelion and hints that they received intel that S.H.I.E.L.D. might be compromised by long-thought-dead HYDRA. Fury doesn’t seem surprised to hear it, but then, he doesn’t ever seem surprised to hear anything.

Fury sends Natasha and Clint on a mission with the STRIKE team to retrieve a hijacked S.H.I.E.L.D satellite ship called the Lemurian Star. Natasha steals the data being transmitted from the ship as requested; Clint covers her back while assisting with the rescue of hostages, including field agent Jasper Sitwell; and Agent Rumlow spends the entire pre- and post-mission Quinjet rides loudly lamenting to Agent Rollins that he’s lost access to his favorite strip club and preferred form of stress relief.

“What’d you do, get a little too handsy?” one junior agent asks with a smirk. “Man, I hate it when the girls complain about that. Like, they chose this job, you know? They’re getting naked onstage. It’s like they’re asking to be touched.”

Rumlow glances at Natasha nervously and tells the agent to shut the hell up. Natasha sends them both her coldest smile, but she notes the agent’s name and title so she can report him for unprofessional conduct later. Perhaps she’ll tell Sharon Carter, too. Carter keeps an unofficial list of men within S.H.I.E.L.D. who have made harassing or derogatory remarks about women – not enough to get them fired or even visited by HR, but enough to make the workplace an uncomfortable and potentially hostile environment. Carter distributes the updated list each year in the women’s bathroom at the annual holiday party. Natasha suspects it’s a legacy carried over from Sharon’s aunt, the one and only Peggy Carter, but she’s never asked.

Natasha hands off the flash drive with stolen data to Fury when she and Clint return from the mission. She doesn’t tell Fury that she made her own copy, which she plans to pass on to Stark in the near future. She keeps the drive tucked in a secret compartment of her bra so that it doesn’t fall into the wrong hands.

She spends the next few days catching up on official paperwork, answering emails, and memorizing the names and faces of the new agents and trainees. As she works, she ponders whether any of the agents around her are double agents for HYDRA, and whether she can sniff them out before they sabotage Project Insight like Rogers warned they might.

She’s still wondering how and when HYDRA could have infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D. Rogers had seemed insistent that HYDRA had “never died.” Did that mean they had been in S.H.I.E.L.D. from the start? Going back even farther, had they also been part of the SSR? Surely Peggy Carter would never have let that happen – unless she didn’t know about it. Who could have hidden it from her? Chester Phillips? Unlikely – he famously hated HYDRA. What about Howard Stark?

Natasha pulls out her burner phone, rereading the coded messages from Tony Stark. She and Clint received them their first day back, but with the debrief, mission, and other work, they haven’t had a chance to respond. Stark wants them to dig through the S.H.I.E.L.D. archives for information on HYDRA, focused on the 1960’s. He also found some information on HYDRA from his father’s archives, which he’s planning to tell them when they return to the Tower.

Natasha casually walks down to the gym and finds Clint in the archery range. She slides onto a bench as finishes off a set of arrows, pretending to text as she waits.

“Hey,” he says, wiping his brow. “You wanna spar?”

“In a minute,” she says, affecting a shrug. “Want a break?”

Clint shrugs. He sits down next to her and leans back, yawning. Natasha discreetly flashes her phone screen at him. He eyes it briefly, then glances away as if he didn’t mean to see it.

“Got a hot date?” he asks, twitching his fingers to signal that he understood.  

“At our favorite used bookstore, tonight at nine,” she answers dryly as she deletes the texts.

“Hm,” says Clint. “You need a chaperone?”

“Could always use an excuse to exit,” says Natasha. “Just in case the guy’s a real asshole.”

“You got it,” says Clint. “Come on, let’s see if the mats are open.”

Natasha lets her mind drift into the simplicity of _strike – block – swing – jump_ against Clint, the only partner she really trusts. They correct each other’s weaknesses after each round and call it quits after an hour and a half. Clint heads off to the showers while Natasha does some cooldown stretches against the mats. The ring and its viewing area are empty when she’s done, but she can’t shake the feeling that she’s being watched, so she sweeps every nook and cranny of the bathroom for bugs. It’s clear.

Natasha blows out a frustrated breath. She decides to forgo the shower and grabs some paper towels to do a spot bath at the sink. Then she returns to her desk and idly clicks through the internal S.H.I.E.L.D. directory, skimming through each person’s profile and publicly shared activity history. None of it is informative on its own, but maybe she’ll be able to piece together some patterns later. She spends extra time on the names she remembers from Sharon Carter’s list. There’s usually a connection between men who are prone to misogyny and those who are prone to fascism. Natasha has dealt with plenty of both.

The halls are empty when nine o’clock rolls around. It’s Friday night, so nearly everyone has packed up and left to start their weekend. Natasha puts on her full uniform for good measure, then makes her way to the archives, but not before doubling back a few times to shake off any tails. Clint’s already waiting for her inside, perched atop a shelf in a shadowy corner, his bow and arrows slung across his back.

“Didn’t want the party to start without me?” she asks. Her voice resonates strangely, tinny and thin in the enclosed space.

“Some party,” Clint mutters as he lands lightly on the floor. “Ready for a long night?”

“Always,” Natasha says dryly.

They’ve only pulled down a couple of boxes when they hear the shot.

Both of them take cover immediately, barely breathing as they listen around them. Another shot rings out, followed by the uneven gait of someone running, or more like lurching, down the hall toward them. Then there’s another shot, and a loud thunk as a body drops abruptly on the ground – right against the door to the archives.

Dead silence reigns for a minute, and then the door slams open. Natasha shoots up, drawing a gun with one hand and palming a knife in the other. In a flash of movement next to her, Clint calmly aims an arrow – straight at Nick Fury’s heart.

“Romanoff, Barton,” Fury pants, crawling into the room. There’s blood smeared across his cheek. “Good. You’re here. We gotta go.”

Neither of them moves. “What’s going on?” asks Clint.

“What does it sound like?” Fury grunts and tosses something in their direction while pushing the door shut with his foot. Shouts begin to filter in from the hall, getting louder and louder with each passing second. “S.H.I.E.L.D.’s compromised. Let’s _go_.”

Natasha dodges the object on instinct and lets it land in front of her. It’s a flip phone. The screen shows a series of numbers – internal S.H.I.E.L.D coordinates to the garage – plus the words “READY TO EXTRACT.” She catches Clint’s eye – he nods quickly – and then she crushes the phone into pieces with the heel of her boot. Both of them throw their S.H.I.E.L.D. phones onto the ground and shatter them, too. Then Clint jumps up onto the shelf, lifts a ceiling panel, and climbs into the vents. Natasha quickly follows, and Fury comes last. They slither silently through the vents, listening to muffled curses from below. Natasha recognizes Rumlow’s grating, nasal tenor, practically embedded in her mind after the last mission.

Maria Hill is waiting for them next to a sleek black vehicle with tinted windows, her face covered by a STRIKE team helmet. “Glad you made it, sir,” she tells Fury. She tilts her head, studying Clint and Natasha. “Agents. You two coming along for the ride?”

“Yes, they are,” Fury answers, deftly punching in the access code and pulling open the driver’s side door. They all pile in quickly, Hill in the front, Clint and Natasha in the back. Fury disconnects the vehicle from all online systems and then zooms out of the garage.  “We’re going off the map. Deep shadow conditions. Hope you didn’t leave anything valuable back there.”

“My pizza in the staff lounge fridge,” Clint mutters with a sad sigh.

Hill snorts and pulls off the STRIKE team helmet with a sigh of relief. “There’s a bag underneath the front passenger seat with some clothes, guns, and snacks. Better eat and arm yourselves now, and put on some more normal looking clothing before we have to get out. Sir, you may have to get rid of the trenchcoat. Also, you’ve got blood on your face. Hey, Romanoff. Will you hand me that navy blue jacket that almost passes for a blazer?”

Natasha passes it over, then pulls on a striped gray and black hoodie and loose navy sweatpants over her uniform. Clint quickly inhales two granola bars, then hides his bow and arrows with an oversized leather jacket. He puts on a backwards baseball cap to complement his already frayed jeans. They both supplement their normal supply of weapons with handguns and extra ammunition.

Tense silence settles as they cross the bridge over the Potomac, taking them off Theodore Roosevelt Island where the Triskelion is located. Natasha isn’t surprised to see a Quinjet hovering at the bridge’s exit into the city. STRIKE team members in stealth gear swarm around the car, covering the interior with bright red dots from their laser sights.

“You’re surrounded, Nick,” a voice calls from the Quinjet. “Come out of the vehicle peacefully, and no harm will come to you and your accomplices. We’ll all just have a little chat, clear the air, and be on our way. You know I prefer the diplomatic solution.”

“Who is that?” Hill hisses. She’s cutting a hole through the floor of the car using a handheld laser device.

“Alexander Pierce,” Fury mutters. “Are we ready yet?”

“No,” Hill snaps. “Wait, did you say Pierce? As in, Secretary of the World Security Council? Your good friend? Why is he trying to kill us?”

“Because he’s HYDRA,” Natasha says slowly, “Isn’t he? He’s the one leading the sabotage of Project Insight within S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

“And at least half the STRIKE team’s on his side,” Clint says with a low whistle.

Fury grunts, slowly unbuckling his seatbelt and shrugging off his trench coat. “Now is not the time for this discussion. Hill, is it ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’re going to have to drop one by one. Hill, you take the lead, I’ll take the rear. Barton, Romanoff, just follow. Stay alert. We’ll debrief once we reach a secure location.”

The road explodes above them two minutes later, a hair’s breadth from where they’re crouched deep underground. They’re so far underground that the debris doesn’t even reach them, merely covers up their ground-level exit. It’s an advantage, in a way; it obscures their tracks from the STRIKE team, who are undoubtedly digging through the wreckage for their bodies. Unfortunately, it also cuts off their main source of fresh air.

Natasha keeps her mouth covered with top of the hoodie as she follows behind Hill closely. It’s so dark that all Natasha can really see is the blue light from the laser that Hill’s using to tunnel through the subgrade.

“Are we Pac-Man or are we the ghost?” Clint muses, his voice muffled by his jacket. “Do we get fruit at the end?”

No one answers.

“How much structural damage is this going to cause?” asks Natasha.

“Not enough to make the all the roads in DC collapse, I hope,” Hill responds. “And come on, Barton, we’re obviously Pac-Man in this scenario.”

It feels like over an hour passes before they emerge onto an abandoned subway platform that smells of stale piss. Hill clicks on her flashlight, and the rest of them follow suit. Natasha spots faded gold block letters that spell out “Massachusetts Ave.” Underneath is rather realistic painting of a man and a boy playing chess over a square table.

“This is the old Dupont subway, formerly the infrastructure for DC’s electric trolley,” Hill announces. Her voice is quiet but carries widely in the open space. “Everyone doing all right?”

Natasha nods, while Fury and Clint respond in the affirmative. After a quick visual check of the platform, they proceed to wend their way along the rusted tracks, passing corroded pillars and faded graffiti until they reach a hidden maintenance door. Hill picks the lock and pushes the door open, and then, suddenly, they are at ground level, standing on a little shadowed ledge inside the present-day Connecticut Avenue road tunnel underneath Dupont Circle. Cars speed by, paying no attention to their sudden appearance. Over the roar of wheels on pavement they can hear sirens and helicopters responding to the explosion at the bridge.

“This is as far as I know to go,” says Hill, assessing their surroundings with sharp eyes. “What now?”

“We should split up,” Clint suggests. “You got a final destination in mind, Director?”

Fury sighs. “Romanoff, Barton, you need to go underground. I’ve got a personal safehouse in Baltimore which you can stay in for a couple days. It’s completely off the books. I’ll meet you there tomorrow night.” He gives them the address and continues, “Hill, I need you to be my inside agent. Take cover for the night – maybe a hotel paid with cash – then go back to the Triskelion tomorrow and find Sharon Carter. Ask her to spar with you and then spend some time at the gun range. I’ll be in contact with a plan. If anything goes wrong, get to the safehouse.”

“What about you, sir?” asks Hill, her brow furrowed in confusion.

“Me?” Fury spreads his arms in a shrug. “Well, they’ve already tried to kill me once. Might as well play dead and solve their problem for them.”

“And how do you plan on doing that?” asks Hill.

Fury doesn’t answer, disappearing into the night.

Hill stares after him with an exasperated look. “Guess he doesn’t need a trench coat to act like a vampire,” she mutters. “All right. I’m off. Good night, guys. Let’s split.” She turns in the direction Fury went in, and Natasha and Clint turn in the other.

The next morning around 11 AM, after a night of exhaustion-induced sleep and a long hot shower, Natasha sits down on the safehouse’s uncomfortable IKEA sectional with an MRE and turns on the TV. The news channels are ablaze with the usual mix of headlines: the latest casualties from the Syrian Civil War; a new Hepatitis C treatment developed by researchers; a woman who got arrested after throwing a shoe at the former Secretary of State; fines imposed on yet another financial investment group for insider training; another pro-Russian protest in Ukraine. The only mention of their activities last night is a small local news segment about a gas explosion near S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters with no reported casualties.

Natasha’s burner phone pings with a message from Stark Tower: _You both ok?_

 _Both safe and fine,_ Natasha responds. _No info yet. Will be in contact later._

Stark doesn’t respond. Natasha wonders how Rogers and Barnes are doing, but she decides not to ask. She deletes both texts, then explores the rest of the safehouse. An L-shaped desk takes up most of the windowless office in the corner of the house. On one side sits a top-of-the-line desktop computer, monitor, and keyboard, and on the other rests a huge monitor showing live feed from various CCTV cameras placed around the outside of the property.

The rest of the house is bare bones. There’s a kitchenette with two electric burners, an ancient coffeepot and a box of dusty filters (but no coffee beans), and cabinets filled to the brim with MREs and water bottles. There isn’t even a refrigerator. There’s one bathroom with a toilet, sink, and small shower stall, which is attached to a bedroom with two full-size beds. Clint’s still lying in one of them, dead asleep and snoring loudly. There are no closets or shelves anywhere, and beyond the surveillance system in the office and the early-model LCD TV in the living room, the only other piece of technology is a 1990’s-era boombox with a tape deck, CD player, and AM/FM radio dial. Natasha can’t find any tapes or CDs, and the radio reception is spotty. She sweeps for bugs out of sheer boredom – she and Clint cleared the place last night before collapsing – and comes across a worn deck of cards underneath one of the MRE stacks. With a sigh, she settles down on the floor of the living room, waiting for Clint to wake up.

Clint spends forty-five minutes singing off-key in the shower before joining Natasha in the living room. He yawns and sprawls onto the sectional, wolfing down an MRE and drinking a huge glass of water.

“Huh,” he says, looking around. “I feel like I just stepped back in time to my terrible teen years.”

“The radio doesn’t even work, and there aren’t any books,” Natasha says, carefully placing the last card atop her card castle. She stands and brushes off her pants, then reaches into her bra and pulls out the flash drive of data she stole from the Lemurian Star. “I was going to wait till we met up with Stark, but we might as well start now. Let’s find out what the hell’s on this thing.”

It turns out that the data’s so encrypted that it’s beyond their skill to hack. They can, however, trace the origin of the data, which turns out to be Paramus, New Jersey.

“Well, if we investigate that, it’d bring us closer to the Tower,” says Clint. “Think we should contact Stark? Have him check it out?”

“Let’s see what Fury says,” says Natasha. “I know he’s got a plan, and I don’t want to interfere with it by accident.”

Clint shrugs, and they head back to the living room. Clint eyes Natasha’s card castle speculatively.

“Don’t you dare,” she says darkly.

Clint sighs and examines the dusty TV remote. He carefully steps around the card castle and turns on the TV. “At least it’s the weekend. Programming on weekends is way better than on weekdays.”

They end up finding a _Planet Earth_ marathon. Clint watches it for a couple of hours while Natasha keeps an eye on the CCTV. He leaves it on in the background when he joins Natasha in the office. They stare at the CCTV and trade speculations about which S.H.I.E.L.D. agents might be HYDRA.

“Rumlow,” Clint says grimly. “Guy’s always been a dick.”

“He thinks with his dick,” Natasha agrees, as a sickening thought occurs to her. What if Rumlow’s shutdown “favorite strip club” had actually been the HYDRA base where Rogers and Barnes were being held?

Clint leans forward. “Nat. What is it?”

Natasha blows out a breath. “Wondering if he might have been involved in the…special treatment that certain people experienced.”

Clint’s eyes widen as he makes the connection. “Oh. Ohhh. Yeah. You think that’s what he meant when he was complaining in the Quinjet?”

Natasha shrugs. “Could be. He was leading the STRIKE team last night. I recognized his voice.”

“He usually partners with Rollins on missions,” says Clint, frowning. “Maybe Rollins is a double agent too. Hey, you know what I’ve been thinking was weird about that mission? Jasper Sitwell. Dude’s a computer tech expert, but – something about his presence just didn’t sit right with me.”

“Add him to the list,” says Natasha, frowning. “And Alexander Pierce.”

“Yeah, that one was a surprise,” says Clint. “I mean, really. He always seemed so...I dunno, noble. Like he could’ve been Captain America in another life.”

“Maybe he was in that role, but for HYDRA,” Natasha muses. “Every organization needs a figurehead.”

“D’you think he ever met you know who?”

Natasha nods. “If he is HYDRA, and he is the head of it, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was overseeing some of the, um, more extreme activities.”

 Clint grimaces. “I wonder if they’ve provided any other intel. And I wonder how they’re doing in general. They’ve got a long recovery ahead of them, but you know, they actually seemed pretty functional for everything they’ve been through. It’ll be nice to get an update in person.”

“We should have had them look at a S.H.I.E.L.D. directory and point out who they recognized,” Natasha says, frustration leaking through her voice.

“And set their recovery back by another lifetime?” Clint shakes his head. “Nah. Bad idea. They’ll tell us when they tell us.”

By the time sunset rolls around, the channel has moved on from _Planet Earth_ to reruns of _Downton Abbey._ Natasha has only seen the first episode of the first season, so she doesn’t really know what’s going on, but she lets herself get superficially invested in the character interactions anyway, leaving Clint to surveillance. Clint’s fully caught up to the latest episode of the show; he binge-watched the entire series while recovering from a broken leg he got from falling into a dumpster. It’s almost more entertaining listening to him stop himself from blurting out spoilers than it is watching the actual show.

A loud knock sounds on the door at 8:49 PM. Natasha silently slips into the office and checks the CCTV feed alongside Clint. It’s Fury. He’s wearing a black suit, black shirt, and black tie, along with his characteristic eyepatch, and he’s alone. Clint opens the door with one hand and points a gun at Fury with the other.

“Evening,” says Clint.

Fury raises an eyebrow. “Stand down, agent. I’m already dead.”

Clint snorts and lets him in, then shuts and locks the door. Fury immediately begins checking the perimeter and sweeping the safehouse for bugs.

“So,” says Natasha, when Fury finally joins her and Clint in the living room, “you’re dead now?”

“Found floating in the Potomac right in front of the Triskelion,” says Fury. “No heartbeat. Well, not one that was detected, anyway.”

Natasha raises her eyebrows.

Fury sighs and continues, “Tetrodotoxin B. It slows the pulse down to one beat a minute. Banner originally developed it to try to stop himself from turning into the Hulk. It didn’t work, obviously, but it has other uses.”

“Who found you?” asks Natasha.

“Sharon Carter, during her lunch break outside. She called Hill, and they fished my body out of the river. S.H.I.E.L.D. docs pronounced me dead around 1 PM. Hill took my body for ‘funeral arrangements’ and left me sleeping in a car that she hid in a secure location. I woke up an hour ago and made my way over.”

“If you’re dead, who’s the director of S.H.I.E.L.D.?” asks Clint. “Hill?”

“Alexander Pierce,” Fury says.

“Oh, we’re so fucked,” says Clint.

Fury holds up a hand. “Hear me out. I’ve been thinking something’s fishy with Insight for a while, and when you told me about HYDRA, it finally gave me a name to put to the face. The hijacking of the Lemurian Star gave me the perfect opportunity to figure out what the hell might be going on. That’s why I had you retrieve that intel, Romanoff. When I tried to access the files from the ship, the system said I had ordered myself to be locked out of the files. Obviously, I didn’t. I went to Pierce and asked him to delay the launch of Project Insight – it’s scheduled to be in two weeks, and the other members of the World Security Council are going to be on site. I told him it was worth the extra work to figure out what the hell what was going on.”

“And that’s when he ordered the hit on you,” says Natasha. “He knew you caught onto him.”

“Exactly. Fortunately, I already told Hill to prepare an escape plan in case anything went south. I wasn’t expecting to run into you two, but I’m glad I did. You’ve got access to intel about HYDRA – the files you found at the old base, but also Tony Stark and his father’s archives. Stark will probably be able to crack the Lemurian Star data, too, and figure out what Pierce and HYDRA are planning to do with Insight.”

Clint and Natasha glance at each other. Clint raises his eyebrows, and Natasha shrugs.

“I can tell you two know something that you haven’t told me,” says Fury dryly. “I’m right here.”

Natasha sighs and says slowly, “According to what we heard, HYDRA is planning to use Insight to kill HYDRA enemies.”

“All at once?”

Natasha blinks. “What do you mean, ‘all at once’? Is that a possibility?”

“Wait. I thought Insight was just a super-advanced real-time surveillance system,” says Clint. “You know, kinda like your set-up in the office here. But with worldwide, high quality live streams that can track coordinates. When the system shows a target with suspicious activity, S.H.I.E.L.D. sends in a team to apprehend the person before the target commits a crime. Right? So, if HYDRA gets control of it – they surveil their own enemies, then send their own team in to kill the target. How does that lead to simultaneous mass genocide?”

“The surveillance is only half of it,” Fury says. He sounds like every word is being pulled out of him. “There are three armed helicarriers being constructed in the sub-basement of the Triskelion. They’re programmed to start scanning for targets on launch day once they connect with the satellites placed all around the globe. Instead of S.H.I.E.L.D. sending a team after an individual target, giving the target a chance to escape, we designed the helicarriers to scan for potential targets, pinpoint the coordinates for multiple targets at the same time –”

“And then shoot the targets,” breathes Natasha.

Fury nods.

“And now HYDRA’s got control of the helicarriers. Which means they can target all of their enemies at once –”

“And boom,” Clint finishes. “Dead. Gone.”

There’s a sharp pain in Natasha’s gut, like she just got stabbed unexpectedly. Her hand comes away clean – she has no physical injuries – but she feels lightheaded and can’t seem to get enough air. “Excuse me,” she says, pushing back suddenly from the table. She walks slowly to the bathroom, staring at herself in the mirror.

“Nat?” Clint knocks lightly on the door. “Hey. You all right?”

Natasha opens the door. She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes to regroup. When the panic recedes, she’s left with the cold, bitter taste of betrayal. “I thought I was going straight when I joined S.H.I.E.L.D. When you brought me in – and after deprogramming – I thought I could start making up for the red in my ledger by helping people. I trusted Nick. But this –” She shakes her head. “This is just like what I used to do. Was trained to do, forced to do, before I knew better.”

Clint slowly reaches out a hand and grasps her shoulder. “I know. It sucks. It really, really sucks, and I’m mad as hell that Fury set us up like that. Set _you_ up especially.”

“We have to stop HYDRA,” says Natasha, exhaling another long breath. “That’s the top priority right now. I know Nick probably has a plan, and I’ll follow it. But after all this –”

The sharp crack of breaking glass cuts her off. Fury groans loudly from the living room. Natasha and Clint run in to find him on the floor, pressing a hand against his sternum. It comes away bloody. There’s a bullet hole in the window next to the TV.

“Run,” Fury wheezes.

They don’t get a chance. STRIKE agents kick open the front door, swarming into the house. The fight is short and brutal. Natasha and Clint start by covering Fury, firing at the agents who get too close until Fury has time to start defending himself. He fires more slowly than usual as he tries to keep himself from bleeding out. Natasha runs out of bullets too quickly and resorts to using hand-to-hand combat along with her knives and, when given the opportunity, garrotte wire. One STRIKE agent gets Natasha in the gut, right where she felt like she got stabbed earlier. She ignores the searing pain and does her best to herds the agents to one central space. Clint punches and kicks his way through the swarm until he can crawl up to the kitchen counter and use his arrows to take out agents from a distance.

Half an hour later, ten dead STRIKE agents are lying in the kitchen and the living room. Natasha recognizes the junior agent from the Lemurian Star mission who tried to joke with Rumlow about strippers.

“Shit,” Fury groans, struggling to get up. “Shit, shit.”

Clint jumps down and helps support Fury’s weight. His face is swelling. “We gotta go. Nat? You all right?”

“Just a flesh wound,” she answers, wincing. She grits her teeth, pressing against the gash. It’s bleeding more than she would like. “The Tower. We gotta get to the Tower. I trust…Stark’s security.”

“Black car…alley,” Fury wheezes. “Get me…there...”

It’s a slow journey. The house only has one door – the front – and Clint has to run around clearing the street before they can go. There are sirens approaching from the distance, probably responding to the gunfire noise. Fury’s losing energy fast and Natasha isn’t faring much better. When they reach the car, Fury slaps his bloody palm against the handle to initiate fingerprint recognition, then dumps himself into the driver’s seat. Clint takes the front passenger seat, and Natasha gingerly lays down in the back.

“Initiate v-vertical takeoff,” Fury says. His voice is just above a whisper.

“Vertical takeoff initiated,” the car AI says cheerfully. The car lifts smoothly into the air. “Please set destination.”

“Destination…Avengers…Tower…”

“Destination set. Proceeding with journey. Ninety minutes until arrival.”

Fury groans and slaps the console. “Allow…Agent Barton…Clint…Francis…full access.”

“Authorization required.”

“Fury…Nicholas J…” Fury manages, and then he passes out.

“Authorization granted. Establish voice recognition for Agent Barton, Clint Francis now.”

Clint clears his throat and speaks his name.

“Voice recognition established."

Clint finds a field kit in the center console and does his best to dress Fury’s gunshot wound, then tosses the kit to Natasha. Her hands shake as she examines the gut wound. It’s deeper than she thought. “Need stitches,” she whispers, struggling to pull some gauze out of the kit. It’s so dark. Why can’t she see?

“Nat – Nat! Stay with me – come on –”

* * *

_“- initiate blackout on the building -”_

Natalia is eight years old, and the guard is telling a story. Yelena, lying closest to the door, had begged for one, saying she couldn’t sleep – wouldn’t sleep until she got one. Normally such a plea would get her beaten, but the guard must be new, or perhaps he’s just feeling generous today.

“Long ago, two men were found buried in the ice of the far north. When they were unearthed, many were surprised to find both men still alive. Barely alive, but they had breath and a heartbeat. The people called in a famous doctor to help nurse the men back to health. The doctor found that the men had survived because they both had mystical powers long thought lost to legend. The men were stronger, faster, even smarter than most people. One man had been a commander of an army, and the other his first officer, and together they had won many famous battles during their time. They were also famously devoted to each other – some might even say in love, however unnatural and sinful that is.”

_“- triage this - need medical staff - I cannot work on three people at once -"_

“One of the men – the first officer – was badly injured. The doctor had done his best to treat him when he was found, but he was still dying slowly. The doctor proposed a deal: if the commander would let the doctor take his powers, the doctor would use them to make a cure for his friend. The only catch was this. Without his powers, the commander would be greatly weakened – still alive, of course, but weaker than even the smallest child.”

_“- what exactly do you mean by compromised -”_

“The commander agreed. He would do anything to save his friend. The doctor made good on his deal - he did cure the first officer - but he also betrayed the commander.  The doctor linked the cure for the first officer to a magic spell that allowed the spell-caster to control the man. The doctor sold the spell to the commander’s enemies, who turned the first officer into their puppet. The commander, powerless and weakened, could do nothing but watch his friend destroy everything and everyone that they had tried to protect.”

_“- moles in the agency - attacked us at headquarters then -”_

“The lesson is this: Love is a weakness. Love nothing. Not your comrades, not your commanders, not even yourself. The opposite of love is not hate, but indifference, and that is what will make you strong. Remember this, and you will survive.”

The words etch themselves into Natalia’s soul, settling icy-hot into her gut. Some voice in her head says, unhappily, _That’s not how this story goes_. Natalia doesn’t listen. The cuff is cold on her wrist as she drifts off to sleep.

When she wakes up, she is Natasha again. Clint is sitting by her bedside, holding cold compresses against both of his cheeks as he stares up at the ceiling.

“Hey,” she tries to say, but her throat is too dry.

Clint startles, dropping both compresses to the floor. "Nat? You awake?” He reaches for something at his side. “Water?”

Natasha blinks and nods. Her head hurts at the movement.

“Take it easy. I’m gonna help you sit up and then put the straw against your lips, okay?”

The water is cool as it falls down her throat. It feels almost as cold as her stomach. Strange.

“Where…are we?” she whispers.

“Avengers Tower,” says Clint. He winces, rubbing his cheek. “We made it. We all made it. Fury, too. We’re safe for now.”

“Fury?”

“Yeah. He got shot at the safehouse, remember?”

“Oh,” Natasha sighs as the memories come back to her. They’re hazy. She must be on painkillers. “Right. HYDRA.”

“Yeah.” Clint makes a face. “They’re after us. But hey, we have more intel. Take a look at this.” He reaches to the side and hands her a bound black sketchbook.

Natasha peels open the cover. The first page has a hyper-detailed pencil portrait of Alexander Pierce. There’s a rough sketch of a camera in the corner. It pings something in Natasha’s memory, but she can’t figure out what.

“Rogers drew us the faces of the HYDRA agents he remembers,” says Clint. “He’s a good artist. It’s got who we suspected, and then some. He also wrote the coordinates of some of the HYDRA bases that he and Barnes can recall.”

Natasha flips through the pages. Brock Rumlow. Isaac Murphy. Jack Rollins. Paul the dweeby IT guy. Jasper Sitwell. A U.S. Congressman with a penchant for having affairs with pretty interns – Senator Stern. A man who visited the Red Room a few times. Natasha peers closely at that portrait, trying to recall his name. Karpov? A woman with wavy hair and beguiling smile that sends a chill down Natasha's spine. She's not sure why she's surprised that a woman had been involved. Women could be more sadistic than men.

Natasha's head is starting to pound. She squeezes her eyes shut.

“We can look at this later,” says Clint, gently plucking the sketchbook from her hands and setting it aside. He takes Natasha’s hand and squeezes it. “Get some sleep, Nat. I’m glad you’re okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to all of my new and old readers! Thank you for your patience. This chapter was very challenging to write, from a plot and character perspective. I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> By the way, the [old Dupont subway system](http://forum.skyscraperpage.com/showthread.php?t=202931) actually exists. In 2016 it was partially transformed into a public arts space called the [Dupont Underground](https://www.dupontunderground.org/). It's a 2-3 mile walk from Theodore Roosevelt Island (the supposed location of the Triskelion) to Dupont Circle above ground, though there's no telling how long it would take if you were tunneling underground. Also, Dupont Circle is where Sam and Steve met in the beginning of CA:TWS. 
> 
> Isaac Murphy, Paul the IT guy, and the woman are all free-to-use characters taken from the [HYDRA OCs list](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Uw_EUy4ZGnO0Tx05WuwqnCg7K1N9zFOoWRnEMku1KHo/edit) from the early incarnation of the Hydra Trash Meme.


	9. Clint, part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team works together to take down Project Insight and have an unexpected encounter in the Tower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a beast of a chapter, so I've labeled the split with "Part 1" and "Part 2" to make it easier to mark your place.  
>   
>  **Please note that additional warnings apply for Part 2 of this chapter. I have listed them at the end in case you would like to read them beforehand.**

**Part 1**

Clint settles himself on top of the bookshelf in the common room of the medical suite. It’s not as high a perch as he would like, but it gives him enough of a sightline to survey the hallway while he sits and thinks. At the far end of the hall, Bruce is guiding Bucky through an accelerated form of physical therapy while Steve watches from the doorframe of their shared room.

It’s been thirty-six hours since Clint arrived at the Tower, dragging in a half- and almost-dead Natasha and Fury, respectively. Fortunately, Stephen Strange had still been in the Tower, having just finished the operation for Bucky’s new prosthetic arm. Strange and Tony had whisked Fury away to the operating room while Bruce had hurried to examine Natasha, and Helen Cho had sat Clint down to run a bunch of scans for internal injuries.

The rest of that night, Clint can only remember in flashes: Bruce and Cho stitching up Natasha’s wound with hurried, remote instructions from Strange, speaking from the operating room with Fury’s heart open underneath him; an exhausted-looking Steve delivering medical supplies, water, and snacks to Cho, Bruce, and Clint every forty-five minutes; Strange delivering the news that Fury would live, and proceeding to rant that it was extremely dangerous it was for untrained laypersons to experiment with powerful cardiac drugs, that cardiac surgery was not his specialty nor in the bounds of his training but he was so good he succeeded anyway, and that he better not get sued for malpractice by any of the people he operated on in the Tower. Clint had nodded emphatically along with Strange’s tirade, promptly become nauseated, and barely managed not to throw up on the good doctor’s shoes. All in all, Clint thinks it was a successful evening.

Now, the medical suite is nearly silent save for Bruce’s quiet encouragements as Bucky carefully makes his way back to Steve. Natasha is still under a painkiller-induced sleep, and Fury hasn’t woken yet. According to Bruce and Strange, both are making a steady recovery. Strange and Cho have gone up to their residential floors to catch up on sleep, while Tony’s in the workshop, working on matching up the HYDRA agents’ faces that Steve drew with photos and names from the S.H.I.E.L.D. directory, S.H.I.E.L.D. archives, and Stark archives.

Clint had briefly debriefed with Bruce, Strange, Tony, and Cho in the medical suite’s common room after they’d resolved all immediate medical emergencies. Bruce, Tony, and Cho had agreed that the safest course of action was to stay in the Tower until HYDRA stopped actively pursuing them, and certainly until after they’d taken down Project Insight. Strange had grudgingly acquiesced after Tony told him that SI would pay him double his salary for his lost time and send a glowing recommendation to Metro-General about his superb surgical skills. Tony had proceeded to shut down the Tower and enact maximum security measures on the entire building. He’d also used a secure connection to contact Pepper, who had just jumped on a flight to Japan for an SI meeting, and had told her to extend her trip until further notice.

Clint had spent the rest of the night lounging in the chair in Natasha’s room, head tilted up, eyes closed, pressing cold compresses against his bruised cheeks. He’d been in the middle of pretending he was a suburban housewife at the spa, enjoying a deluxe cucumber eye mask and facial treatment, when Steve had quietly knocked on the door. Clint had jerked awake so suddenly that he fell out of the chair.  

“Ow,” he muttered.

Steve blinked slowly and signed, _“Sorry_.” He sent a concerned glance to an unconscious Natasha, and then cautiously held out the sketchbook. _“Faces - HYDRA.  Help you.”_

Clint opened it, letting out an exhausted groan when he spotted Brock Rumlow’s face. “Oh, yeah. That guy just tried to kill us, like, three times in a row. Asshole.” He flipped through the rest of the pages briefly, eyes widening as he recognized several agents from S.H.I.E.L.D. “Ah, shit,” he muttered, grimacing and scrubbing a hand through his greasy hair. “Johnson? Murphy? McNamara? Lee? I know them. I worked with them. All of them…they – they tortured you guys?”

Steve nodded, his expression grim. _“Some  - worse. Some - better.”_ His eyes briefly flicked to the side, then back to Clint. _“Some only watch. Some - do. Some plan and lead."_

“Damn,” said Clint, blowing out a breath. He rubbed at his temples to stave off an impending headache. “Is this everybody you guys remember?”

“ _Now.”_ Steve shrugged. “ _Maybe -  draw - later."_

“Yeah,” said Clint, frowning down at Alexander Pierce’s face. “Hey, man. These are…really good portraits. You’re a good artist.”

Steve blushed. _“I want - to help.”_

“Yeah, these are really helpful. I’ll show them to everyone after we’ve all recovered more. We’ll figure out what to do.”

Steve nodded. _“Thank you_. _Sorry. We…_ ” He hesitated, guilt flashing across his face. _“Before - we cannot help - more . You all - hurt."_

Clint blinked, processing that slowly, and then he frowned. “There’s no need to be sorry. I mean, you warned us that HYDRA was in S.H.I.E.L.D. and about the Project Insight business. That’s a hell of a lot of good intel to get before walking back into the snake pit. I’m just sorry that Nat and I weren’t fast enough to root them out and stop them before it got to this point.”

Steve stared hard at Clint, then nodded slowly. _“Thank you.”_

“Thank _you_ ,” said Clint. Steve blushed, then turned abruptly on his heel and disappeared down the hallway.

“Okay, good job, Bucky. You can go back to resting.” Bruce’s quiet voice rings throughout the empty hall, bringing Clint back to the present.

Bucky ducks his head and signs _“Thank you_.” He slowly rotates his new left arm, staring at the skin-like covering in awe, then lifts both arms with a shy smile. _“Wonderful_.  _No hurt_ _._ ”

Bruce smiles, nodding at Steve as Steve takes Bucky’s hand. “I’m glad you like it. I’m going upstairs to get some sleep. Let JARVIS know if you need me or anybody else. He’ll alert us if we need to come down here to handle any urgent situations.” He gives them a little wave, then turns and exits the suite.

Steve and Bucky watch him go, then slip back into their room. Clint rubs his eyes and prepares to jump down from his perch, but he halts abruptly as he spots Steve and Bucky making a beeline for the common room. Steve enters first, settling down onto the couch with a grin. Bucky curls up next to him, fiddling with the tablet that was tucked underneath his arm. It’s not an iPad – in fact, it has no brand on it at all. Tony probably custom-built it.

Clint debates between clearing his throat or jumping down suddenly to announce his presence, but then Steve looks right up at him and signs, _“Hello.”_

“Uh, hey guys,” says Clint.

Bucky frowns and turns to stare up at him. He doesn’t need to speak or sign to ask the question in his eyes. _What the hell are you doing up there?_

“Um,” says Clint.

Bucky’s gaze goes distant, and then he taps something out on the tablet and holds it up. _SNIPER?_ He points to Clint and then to the note.

“Am I a sniper?” asks Clint.

Bucky nods.

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

Bucky shrugs. He taps his head, then points to himself. _“Me too.”_   He looks at Clint and gestures toward the couch.

“You want me to join you?”

Bucky and Steve both nod.

“Okay. Let me get down.” Clint jumps down in one smooth move, then loses his balance. His ass lands abruptly on the padded couch next to Bucky. “Ow.”

Bucky turns his face away, his body shaking a little like he’s laughing. He hands the tablet to Clint, who takes it warily. There’s a selection of audiobooks displayed on the screen.

“You want me to pick one?” asks Clint.

Bucky nods.

“Okay,” says Clint, blinking. “So it looks like you guys have gone through… _The Hobbit,_ the first two _Harry Potter_ books, _The Wizard of Oz, The War of the Worlds,_ _The Time Machine_ , and _The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People_. Huh. Interesting choice, I wonder how that last one got on there. Oh, look. You haven’t started the _Lord of the Rings_ trilogy yet. How about that? It’s the sequel, or sequels, to _The Hobbit_.”

Bucky and Steve look at each other. Steve gestures to Bucky, who turns to Clint and nods.

“All right.” Clint taps _The Fellowship of the Ring_ , briefly lingers on the cover art, and presses play.

Gandalf has just told Frodo the true nature of the ring when Natasha steps out of her room and pads down the hall, gingerly holding her side. She’s dressed in a loose tank top and sweatpants, and her hair is uncharacteristically mussed. Her lips quirk upward in a small smile as she takes in the scene before her.

“Hey, Nat,” says Clint after he pauses the tablet.

“Hey,” she says. She raises an eyebrow at Clint, and he stands, giving her the seat next to Bucky. She gives him a grateful smile and carefully curls her knees up to her chest.

Clint frowns, adjusting his new perch on the armrest. “Should you be doing that? You know, with stitches in your abdomen?”

“Probably not,” she sighs, and she plants her feet back down on the ground. She looks to the side. “I’d like to hear the rest of the chapter, if you don’t mind. Could we continue?”

Bucky gestures to the tablet in Clint’s hands and looks at her. Natasha reaches over and presses the play button. “Thank you,” she says.

The moment of relaxation is short-lived. Dr. Strange comes striding down the hall five minutes later, followed by a yawning Bruce, a refreshed-looking Helen Cho, and a manic Tony.

“Miss Rushman, you’re up!” Tony calls. “Thank goodness. We would be at a real disadvantage without our greatest spy kid. No offense, Barton.”

“Thanks, Stark,” Natasha says dryly as Clint pouts.

“Why are you out of bed?” Strange asks, looking annoyed. “Actually, you can be out of bed, but why are you sitting up? You’ll ruin your stitches. You might even facilitate internal bleeding.”

Natasha tilts her head and gives him her most intimidating stare. “Who are you?”

“Stephen Strange,” Strange huffs. “Neurosurgeon. MD. The only legitimate licensed physician in this three-ring circus. Show me your wound. I want to assess the progress of your healing before you damage it further.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow and doesn’t move.

Bruce clears his throat. “How about we all just –”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but Director Fury just woke up. He did not respond well to my greeting and is attempting to dismantle the monitoring system using the limited reach he has from his bed,” JARVIS interjects.

Tony curses and runs down the hall. Strange sighs and follows, and Bruce and Cho follow at a more sedate pace, exchanging resigned looks.

“Whoa! Mad-Eye Moody, come on, oh, no, no, no, you’re not getting rid of JARVIS. You’re safe – oh hey, docs – yeah, why don’t you just lie down for a second -" Tony’s voice cuts off as the door swings shut with a quiet creak.

“I give it five minutes,” says Clint in the sudden silence. Bucky and Steve exchange a confused look, and he clarifies, “Five minutes for Fury to come out here demanding to know what the hell’s going on.”

“Three,” Natasha says in a bored tone. Her hands are clenched tight around her knees. “I’d try to go in, but I’m still a little upset at him lying to us about Project Insight.” 

“I’ll take that wager. Reward for me is ten dollars and two pizzas?”

Natasha hums thoughtfully. “For me, twenty and a bottle of my favorite vodka.”

“Aw, that’s not equivalent at all. Ten dollars and five pizzas.”

“ _Three_ pizzas, and I get to choose the toppings on one of them,” Natasha glares.

“Fine, fine. You’ve got a deal.” He sighs and makes himself comfortable. Out of the corner of his eye, he swears he can see Bucky smirking.

Natasha wins, because she always wins.  Bruce pushes a wheelchair-bound Fury into the room three minutes later, then joins Strange, Cho, and Tony in hovering at the doorway.

“Barton,” Fury rasps with a small cough. “Romanoff.” His gaze swivels to Steve and Bucky. “Who the hell are you?”

Steve and Bucky tense, their eyes flickering to Natasha, Clint, and then the group at the door.

“Why don’t you introduce yourself first,” Cho suggests.

Fury frowns, clearly displeased with this suggestion and unwilling to give up what little power he has in the situation. He turns his attention back to Natasha and Clint. “These your sources on HYDRA, Agents?” he asks instead.

“Yep,” Clint says. “By the way, in case anyone is wondering, this is Nicholas Fury, Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“How do you know they can be trusted?” Fury asks, ignoring his own introduction.

 _“I'm Steve,”_ Steve signs suddenly, quickly, with an irate glare. He reminds Clint of an angry, hissing cat. _“He's Bucky. Many years - HYDRA has us. We - know - plans - I-N-S-I-G-H-T."_

Fury leans forward and peers at Steve and Bucky, and then he closes his eyes and heaves a sigh. “Steve and Bucky.” He opens his eyes and scrutinizes them with a frown. “Did you choose those names yourselves, or did HYDRA give them to you as some sort of sick joke? What am I looking at – some clones of the original Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes?”

Clint raises his eyebrows at Natasha, who raises her eyebrows and shrugs. Bruce coughs and shifts uncomfortably, and Tony opens his mouth, undoubtedly about to spill all the beans, but to everyone’s surprise, it’s Bucky who breaks the silence.

 _“I'm Bucky Barnes. Real,”_   Bucky signs, slowly and carefully. The fingers of his prosthetic are incredibly dexterous. Bucky holds Fury’s gaze for two seconds, then looks away.

Steve nods vigorously. _“Not C-L-O-N-E-S. We - real. The same. The O-R-I-G-I-N-A-L."_

“If you’re the real Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, how come you haven’t aged? You ought to be, what, ninety-five by now?”

Steve huffs and leans forward, looking Fury directly in the eye. “ _Ice. S-E-R-U-M.”_   He waves a hand. “ _More later. HYDRA wants - kill - many - with Insight. We have to stop them."_ He glances at Clint with a frown. _“Book?”_

Natasha pulls it out of the pocket of her sweatpants. Clint blinks; he had no idea she was hiding it in there. Natasha hesitates for a fraction of a second and then says, “Steve and Bucky are the ones who warned us that HYDRA sabotaged Insight and infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D. We’d gone to the S.H.I.E.L.D. archives to look into it when HYDRA attacked you and we got caught in the crossfire. Steve and Bucky gave us this after we got back to the Tower. It’s the faces of the HYDRA agents they remember from their time in captivity.”

Fury opens it cautiously, his eyes widening as he takes in familiar face after familiar face.

“Why did you draw a camera next to Pierce?” he asks.

Steve inhales and exhales slowly. Bucky wraps a comforting arm around his shoulders. _“P-U-N-I-S-H. He takes pictures."_

Clint blinks, recalling the horrific photographs of sexual abuse he and Natasha had recovered from the abandoned base. Tony seems to realize this at the same time, because he claps his hands and clears his throat loudly.

“So anyway,” he says. “HYDRA. They’re currently trying to kill us, and they’re also about to kill twenty million people, thanks to Project Insight. Are we going to just sit around here admiring Steve’s skills in portraiture – which are excellent, by the way – or are we going to make a plan? JARVIS has already gotten started hacking the S.H.I.E.L.D. databases, trying to cross-reference these faces with names, but we’re going to need some higher-level information to be able to tackle this. I’m referring to the intelligence you have, Director Fury. Or should I say former Director? Because Pierce has your job now, doesn’t he? And he’s the head of HYDRA according to all the evidence we’ve seen. Which means our odds of beating this little, uh, situation are now…hm…ten-thousand to one. Those are even worse than when we faced the goddamn aliens.”

Fury doesn’t even seem to have the energy to muster up any exasperation at Tony’s commentary. He groans and says, “All right, I screwed up. Project Insight was far too ambitious a project to be trusted with so many people.”

“Uh, speaking as someone who used to make weapons of mass destruction and was known as the Merchant of Death, Project Insight should never have even left the drawing room table,” Tony snaps. “What gives you, or S.H.I.E.L.D., or HYDRA the right to decide that someone’s guilty before they’ve even committed a crime? And speaking of crimes – this whole Project Insight thing has to be at least ten different kinds of illegal.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. isn’t subjected to the same kinds of regulations as other organizations,” Natasha murmurs quietly. “Its only governing authority is the World Security Council. Alexander Pierce is the Council’s Secretary.”

Tony gapes. “Really?”

“Really,” Clint mutters with a sigh.

“Well,” Bruce says with a weak smile, “we did beat the Chitauri, and that seemed impossible too. We might be able to beat HYDRA. How about we all get cleaned up and then regroup here to figure out what to do next?”

“Post-op assessments first, then strategy meetings to fight international conspiracies,” Strange demands.

“Right,” says Bruce. “What he said.”

Strange declares Natasha and Fury to be in good enough health to attend the meeting, though he repeatedly states that Fury ought to be lying down and resting to prevent complications. They end up compromising by asking everyone to gather in Fury’s room so that Fury can lie propped up on his hospital bed. Natasha ends up stretched out on the bench near the window, and almost everyone else gets a rolling stool or a chair. Clint decides to sit on the counter near the sink so that he has a higher vantage point.

In the end, it takes four hours and fifteen minutes for them to hash out a plan. Fury rolls his eyes and lets out a resigned sigh as JARVIS displays blueprints of the Triskelion and S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel files of each person in Steve’s sketchbook. JARVIS also puts up whatever information the team has cobbled together about Project Insight, along with a map that pinpoints and labels the coordinates of all known S.H.I.E.L.D. bases. Steve and Bucky don’t recognize any of them, which sends a ripple of relief through the rest of the group.

 _“You find us - where?”_ Steve asks, head tilted curiously.

JARVIS zooms in on the location of the abandoned HYDRA base. It sits in between the Grand Canyon National Park and the Grand Canyon National Monument, with the closest point of civilization being the tiny town of Supai. Steve and Bucky stare at it for a long moment, and then they both stand abruptly and walk out of the room.

“J?” Tony asks nervously. “What’s going on? What are they doing?”

JARVIS doesn’t answer for a moment, then says, “Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes are in their room. Their vital signs indicate that they are very angry, Sir. They are currently tearing out pages of their notebooks and throwing them at the wall with extreme force, though they are not causing any permanent damage. I believe that if they were willing and able to vocalize, they would be screaming with rage.”

“Uh,” says Tony, blinking. “Okay. Does anyone know why they’re responding like this all of a sudden?”

Everyone looks at each other, but no one answers.

 “Should we stop them?” Cho ventures.

“Nah,” says Clint. “They’ve probably needed to let that out for a while. It’s therapeutic.”

 “The rage has to come out somehow, and now that they’re in a relatively safe place, they’re bound to start feeling it instead of repressing it. I mean, it’s better than turning into the Hulk, right?” Bruce adds with a wry smile, just as Steve and Bucky walk back into the room with flushed, swollen faces. It’s clear they’ve been crying, but no one comments on it.

“ _Sorry_ ,” they sign simultaneously, and then they plop down into their seats.

“It’s cool,” says Clint, before Tony can open his big mouth and ruin it. “You want to talk about it?”

 Steve takes in a shaky breath and shakes his head. Bucky stares at his hands and quickly signs, “ _No._ ”

“Right,” says Fury, frowning. “Let’s move on. HYDRA. Where were we?”

Fury explains that the three Insight helicarriers are each programmed by a computer chip with an algorithm that determines the targets. When Hill hid Fury in the car, she left him with an encrypted, non-S.H.I.E.L.D burner phone. It miraculously survived the flight from the safehouse thanks to a padded suit pocket sewn into his suit jacket. Attached to the back of the phone are three identical-looking chips containing the algorithmic target data for each helicarrier.

“The helicarriers are all controlled remotely. Let’s reprogram these decoy chips to aim the helicarriers at each other – in other words, make the helicarriers each other’s targets. If we switch the chips out before they launch on Saturday morning, then ideally the only casualties will be the helicarriers themselves and some of the surrounding infrastructure when they’re launched into the air and activated,” says Fury.

“Saturday morning is five days from now,” says Tony, rubbing his hands together excitedly. “Plenty of time to do a good old-fashioned hackathon. I’m going to give myself…hm…seventy-two hours, tops.”

“Barton and I will switch out the chips when Stark is finished,” says Natasha, catching Clint’s eye.

Clint nods and turns to look at Strange and Bruce. “What do you think, docs? Are we going to be field-ready within three days?”

Strange sighs. “Light activity is acceptable,” he mutters, “especially if you spend the next three days resting. I assume you have protective gear?”

“Yes,” says Natasha.

“You,” says Strange, pointing at Fury, “You will not be fit for any kind of activity for at least a week.”

“I got that,” Fury mutters. “I can still play with a cell phone and the AI, can’t I?”

“That sounds dirty,” Tony comments absently. Bruce chuckles.

“How are you going to get into S.H.I.E.L.D.?” asks Cho, her brow furrowed.

Fury waves the burner phone. “Hill and Carter. They were both part of my fake death plan. We can trust them.”

“Carter?” Tony says, eyes darting to Steve and Bucky. “Wait – Oh. Sharon. Aunt Peggy’s niece. The blonde one?”

“That’s the one,” Fury says dryly. “I’ll ask her and Hill to scope out a point of entry and report back to us, and then have one of them rendezvous with Barton and Romanoff on Thursday night. That’ll give us at least twenty-four hours to carry out a contingency plan in case anything goes wrong.”

“ _You need,”_ Steve starts, and then he stops, frowning hard. _“A reason. A P-U-B-L-I-C reason. You destroy everything, no explanation - you - enemy."  
_

Bucky nods. _“People need to know - HYDRA.”_

“Steve’s sketches won’t be enough on their own,” says Natasha slowly. “HYDRA’s managed to survive unnoticed for seventy years. It probably has a million ways to hide. We could – we’ll need to eventually uncover their shell accounts and root out their bases, but for this, we need…” Her eyes drift to Tony. “We need an Iron Man moment.”

“Shock value,” says Clint, catching on.

“Hang on, you mean with these two?” Tony gestures to Steve and Bucky. “You want to tell the world that Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes are back from the dead?”

“No, that’s their choice and only theirs,” says Natasha.

Steve sends her an appreciative glance, and Bucky signs, _“Thank you.”_

Natasha nods at them and continues, “I mean – with HYDRA. We need to expose them. Bring them out into the light and not let them have a chance to crawl back into the dark.”

“We need something so shocking and so irrefutably true that they don’t have a chance to spin it,” says Clint.

A tense silence passes, and then Steve lifts his hands. “ _C-H-I-P-S.”_   He gestures to Fury’s burner phone. “ _HYDRA lists. Targets.”_

“Dumped onto the Internet for anyone to access? Along with Steve’s sketches and any other evidence we can find?” Clint suggests.

Natasha nods. “Yes. We should dump everything online at the same time the helicarriers explode, so it’s clear there is a connection.”

“Oh!” says Tony. “Simultaneous explosions. Both physical and virtual, Saturday morning. Got it. This is going to be fun.”

“Hang on a moment. This will implicate S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Fury warns. “In fact, if we don’t make it clear that it was HYDRA who created the target lists, not S.H.I.E.L.D., then people are going to think that they’re one and the same.”

Bruce coughs quietly. “Sorry, but what’s the difference? Both HYDRA and S.H.I.E.L.D. were willing to kill millions of people with this project. The only distinction was who they chose to target.”

Fury glares at Bruce.

 _“Doctor - right. S.H.E.L.D., HYDRA, same,_ ” signs Steve, and Bucky nods emphatically. 

“I agree,” says Tony. “So, have we got a plan? Can I go and get started now?”

“Not yet, Stark. I got a couple questions about your AI I’d like to ask you. In _private_ ,” Fury adds, when no one makes a move to leave.

“And we’re dismissed,” Clint says under his breath. He helps Natasha into the wheelchair and pushes her back into her room at her direction, closely followed by Steve, Bucky, Cho, Bruce, and Strange. Steve and Bucky peel off into their room with a little wave, but Strange pops his head in, nodding approvingly as Natasha climbs back into the bed.

“Bedrest for you until your mission in three days. And if the stitches tear, I expect you or the AI to alert me immediately.” Strange strides away with a dramatic about-face like he’s auditioning for the role of Snape in the _Harry Potter_ books.

Bruce gives them an apologetic look. “Sorry about him.”

“I’m really glad he’s here, but he’s kind of insufferable,” Cho adds. “The day he first came and met Tony Stark…that was a sight to behold.”

“You two doing all right?” asks Bruce. “This must be a lot to take in. I mean, S.H.I.E.L.D. was your employer. I know what it’s like to have your employer lie to you about the true purpose of your work.”

“Yeah, it actually really sucks,” Clint says, rubbing a hand through his hair and grimacing. “I mean, I’m glad we found out about HYDRA, don’t get me wrong, but – what the hell are we going to do after this is over?”

“Disappear. Make a new identity. Start over,” Natasha says.

“Not a bad idea,” says Bruce, looking thoughtful. “I tried that once, but you know, a certain redhead tracked me down and asked me to fight some aliens.”

“Sorry,” Natasha says, not sounding sorry in the slightest.

Bruce shakes his head, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he laughs. “Get some rest, both of you. We’ll see you later.”

* * *

**Part 2**

Tony finishes reprogramming the decoy chips on Thursday morning and offers the use of an externally non-descript, internally enhanced minivan for the trip to DC. “I’ve never had the desire to actually be a soccer dad, but you know, it can be nice to go incognito,” Tony explains as he tests out the voice-activated control panel, making sure it can manually connect to JARVIS so that they can get back into the Tower.

Natasha eyes the minivan, which looks dusty and incongruent compared to the polished vintage vehicles lining the other spaces of the garage. “Thanks, Stark,” she says.

“Of course, Miss Rushman,” Tony sighs, rubbing his eyes. He stayed up all night working on the chips, and he looks half a second away from a collapse. “All right, you’re all set, spy kids. Good luck. We’ll be on call.”

Clint takes the driver’s seat as Natasha lies down in the back. She’s almost completely recovered from her stab wound, though it still sometimes aches when she moves the wrong way. (Clint wouldn’t ordinarily know this, as Natasha never admits weakness unless she’s had too much of her favorite vodka, but he saw it happen).

They rendezvous with Maria Hill at an abandoned parking lot on the outskirts of the city. Clint secures the minivan and changes its license plate, sends a little prayer that it and they all make it back to the Tower in one piece, then climbs into the backseat of Hill’s utility van. Hill drives them in a random route for a while as they wait for the sun to go down, then she pulls into a shopping mall, where she’s hidden a S.H.I.E.L.D. SUV at the darkest corner of a lot. Natasha and Clint change into S.H.I.E.L.D. tech uniforms in the backseat and pull on wigs, baseball caps, and ear comms. They crouch on the floor of the car as Hill pulls into the garage of the Triskelion and greets the security guard with big, fat crocodile tears.

“I’m sorry,” she blubbers uncharacteristically, “I know there’s a curfew, but I’m having such a hard time sleeping since Director Fury died, I just thought, maybe I could use the gym and the shooting range for a little while?”

The security guard looks at her with wide, panicked eyes and waves her through.

Hill keeps up the act until she’s parked the SUV and led them into the stairwell. They walk quietly up six floors, and then duck into a conference room, where Sharon Carter is waiting for them in the dark. “Glad you made it,” she says. She’s dressed in a technician’s uniform too, and her blonde hair has been covered with a wig, giving her a short, businesslike bob. “Do we have what we need?”

Clint nods and hands her one the chip labeled “C.” Hill had explained that Carter would be switching out the chip for the third helicarrier while Clint and Natasha tackled the other two. “She can be trusted,” Hill assured them. They have no choice but to take her word for it.

“I’ll be up in the control room monitoring and directing,” says Hill. “Carter, you lead Barton and Romanoff to the helicarriers. After that, it should be pretty easy to get on and switch the chips out. There shouldn’t be anyone over there at this time of night. The badges inside the pockets of your uniforms can get you in and out. I’ve also included recordings of voices in case you need voice recognition. Remember – Romanoff takes Alpha, Barton takes Beta, Carter takes Charlie. Rendezvous at the garage in thirty minutes.”

The rest of the mission goes smoothly, and an hour later, they’re all piled in the backseat of the S.H.I.E.L.D. SUV while Hill profusely thanks the same security guard with a toned-down version of her previous tears. Hill drives them to a strip mall across from the shopping mall where she’d ditched the utility van, then hands the keys to the van to Clint.

“Good job, and good luck,” she says. “Hopefully I’ll see you all when this is over.”

“Safe travels back,” says Carter with a little smile. “Maybe we can all go out to lunch sometime.” She turns and waves, then hops into a Subaru parked a few spaces away. Hill gets into the passenger seat.

Clint watches them drive away, then wraps an arm around Natasha, who’s wincing and clutching her side. “Are you hurt?” he asks.

Natasha shakes her head, grimacing. “Just sore.”

“Let’s get back to our luxurious accommodations,” says Clint. “I’ll drive.”

Later, Clint will kick himself for thinking that it could be so easy.  

It’s four o’clock in the morning when a shrill alarm blares throughout the Tower, jolting Clint out of bed. When he’s fully awake, he finds himself armed and at the door. Blinking, he adjusts his bow and arrows against his back, pats the knife in his pocket and gun holstered at his waist, then slowly opens the bedroom door. Flickering fluorescent emergency lights illuminate the empty hallway, their crackling bulbs breaking up the eerie silence that’s settled into the rest of the suite.

“JARVIS? What’s going on?” Clint calls softly.

There’s no answer.

Well, that’s not good. Clint sighs, rubbing his eyes. It’s only been three hours since he collapsed into bed. The elevators are out of the question, so he unholsters his gun and creeps to the emergency stairwell, feeling like he’s re-enacting the pilot episode of _The Walking Dead_. When he cautiously swings open the door, he finds himself at gunpoint, courtesy of two STRIKE teams blocking both the upper and lower stairwells.

“Drop your weapon! Put your hands up!” an agent barks.

“Why would I do that?” Clint says. His heart is thudding in his ears, but he keeps his expression calm as he counts the number of men. Twelve – six on one side, six on the other. “Come on, guys. We’re coworkers. We can talk this out, yeah?”

“Cut the shit, Barton,” says the agent closest to him. “We’ve got your friends all held up downstairs. One more second of stalling, and your precious Romanoff gets a bullet through her brains.”

_Crap._

Clint hands over the gun and lifts his hands, letting himself be disarmed and patted down. The STRIKE team zip-ties his hands behind his back and frog-marches him down five floors to the medical suite. They go down the hallway into the common room where Clint and Natasha have been hanging out with Bucky and Steve during the week. Natasha, Cho, Strange, and Fury, all clad in various forms of sleepwear or hospital gowns, are kneeling in a semicircle facing the hallway, their hands bound behind their backs. STRIKE agents are pressing guns to the backs of their heads ( _twenty total now_ , Clint counts). Clint joins them as he’s pushed down to the floor. He tries to turn his head and catch Natasha’s eye, but the barrel of the gun pushes harder into his skull at the movement, so he forces himself to be still instead.

“Looks like we finally caught the Black Widow in her own web,” someone guffaws.

Another agent snorts. “Wait till you see who we bring in next.”

“Gentlemen, this is really unnecessary.” Tony’s voice carries loudly down the hallway. “And did I already mention rude? Attacking a man in his own home? Dragging him out of bed while he’s asleep? Locking his good friend into an unbreakable room? I mean, okay, said friend _can_ get a little violent when he’s mad –” The Hulk roars somewhere in the distance, as if to prove Tony’s point. “Okay, more than a little violent, but still. Rude.”

Tony pauses, blinking, as he takes in the group kneeling on the floor. He’s wearing plaid pajama pants, an old AC/DC T-shirt, and no shoes, and there are two STRIKE agents on either side of him, gripping his shoulders tightly _(twenty-two)_. “Oh, I see. Are we having a little execution party? You know, there’s a particular patch of greenery outside that’d really be a better location for this – ow!” Tony groans as one agent pistol-whips him across the face, then pushes him down to the floor to join the others. “That hurt! Do you know how much this face costs?”

“Do you ever shut up?” asks the agent.

“No,” Tony says. “Asshole.”

“Don’t get distracted, or you’ll miss the main event,” Brock Rumlow calls from the far end of the hallway. “Come on, make a little room. These guys are getting the red carpet treatment.”

The agents split neatly into two lines, like they’re the Red Sea that Moses is parting. Brock Rumlow appears first, dragging Steve behind him with a dog leash attached to the vibranium shock collar. Steve’s been stripped of all his clothes but his briefs, leaving the cuffs on his wrists and ankles visible, but his face is pale, but his jaw is set in a familiar way that says he’s not going to give up without a fight. Bucky’s right behind him, also only wearing briefs. His metal arm is visible, and it’s bound behind him to the other arm with a huge pair of magnetic cuffs. There’s another set of cuffs around his ankles, too, so he can only shuffle forward slowly.

Snickers echo throughout when Jack Rollins prods Bucky’s back with a live stun baton. Bucky jerks and nearly topples into Steve, but Rumlow pulls Steve out of the way just in time. Rumlow _tsks_ and pulls harder as Steve tries to get to Bucky, who’s landed on his knees with a thud.

“Not so fast, Pet,” says Rumlow, grinning. He wraps an arm around Steve’s waist, trapping Steve against his chest. “I know you’re eager to get back on your knees for us, but you’ve gotta be patient.”

Rollins grabs Bucky’s arms and wrenches them upward. “Stand up,” he grunts, and Bucky complies, flinching as Rollins presses the inactive stun baton to the small of his back.

“Listen to me, Pet,” says Rumlow. He strokes Steve’s hair with grotesque tenderness as he turns and looks at Bucky, “And you, Soldier. You try anything, anything to fight us, and you get a little shock in your favorite spots. Then we’ll shoot your new friends one by one and make you clean up the mess with your bare hands. Understood?”

Bucky nods, dropping his eyes to the floor. Steve’s mouth tightens as he gives a small nod. Rumlow smirks and slides a hand down Steve’s pants, squeezing his ass tightly. “Good,” he croons.

“Boss is coming,” Rollins announces. “ETA one minute. Everybody hold position. Don’t let your targets move a fuckin’ nose hair.” He meets Rumlow’s gaze and jerks his head. Rumlow moves Steve to one side while Rollins moves Bucky to the other, half-turning them so that they’re facing the hallway but can still see each other.

The heavy breaths of the STRIKE team fill Clint’s ears as he tries to figure a way out of this. Besides Steve, Bucky, and the STRIKE agents, the only person he can really see is Tony, who got placed on the other end of the semicircle. Tony’s breathing fast, and his eyes are screwed up like he’s fighting a migraine, or possibly taking a giant dump. Clint watches him for a few seconds, but it doesn’t look like he’s going to be of any help, so he turns his attention to Steve and Bucky.

Bucky is so still that he looks like a powered off robot with his metal arm and his lowered head; only the faint rise and fall of his chest indicates his humanity. And Steve – well, Clint can only see half of Steve’s face, but he’s never seen it so blank: Steve looks like his soul’s just been sucked out of him, leaving nothing but an empty husk.

Alexander Pierce comes strolling down the hallway like a king, dressed in a prim grey checkered suit and tan dress shoes. He stops in front of Steve and Bucky, humming a little as he scrutinizes each of them from head to toe. He takes Steve’s chin in his hand and turns his head carelessly, inspecting him like a doll, then does the same to Bucky. “Well, boys, I must say I’m surprised. I didn’t think you’d still be alive after being alone for five days, but I’m glad I was mistaken. I was very disappointed that I had to abandon HYDRA’s greatest investments so suddenly last month.”

Rumlow and Rollins shift and exchange nervous glances, but Pierce pays them no mind. He peers closely at Steve and Bucky’s blank expressions, clucks his tongue, and then swiftly slaps each man across the face. Steve gasps, reaching up one hand to cradle his cheek while Bucky blinks and lifts his head slowly. Terror fills Bucky’s face as he sees Pierce, and he drops to his knees abruptly, resting his ass on his heels and lowering his head.

“Very good, Soldier,” says Pierce. He raises his eyebrows at Steve. Steve looks right back at him and doesn’t move.

Pierce lifts a finger, and Bucky yelps as Rollins shocks him with the stun baton, pressing cruelly into the seam where the skin of his back meets the metal arm. It’s still pink and tender from the surgery. Steve drops like a stone, curling his hands into fists as he crosses them behind his back. His face has gone white, and he’s breathing’s unevenly like he’s about to have an asthma attack.

“Much better,” says Pierce, his cold look turning into a concerned frown as he strokes the back of Steve’s neck. “Calm down, Pet. The rules are the same as always. You cooperate, and the Soldier doesn’t get hurt. The Soldier cooperates, and you don’t get hurt. Do you understand?”

Steve clenches his fists behind his back, forcibly regains control of himself, and nods.

“Good,” says Pierce. “Now, I’m sorry to say that I can’t extend the same protection to your friends on the floor here. Come, Pet, turn around and face them while I talk to them. Ah, ah – crawl on your knees, just like that. Now get back into position, keep your eyes up, and stay still.”

Steve flushes red. He won’t meet anyone’s eyes as he sits back onto his heels and crosses his wrists behind his back, choosing to stare dully at some distant point above their heads. Rollins orders Bucky to turn around, roughly prodding his ribs with a steel-toed boot until Bucky’s managed to shuffle around and face them.

“Soldier, look up,” says Pierce.

Bucky does. His face has gone blank again, and it’s clear he’s not really seeing what’s in front of him. Clint thinks that if he were in that position, he’d try to dissociate too.

Pierce turns to the group on the floor. “You all have my gratitude for nursing these two back to health. Agent Barton, Agent Romanoff, you’re both excellent agents, and I’m glad you were the ones to find them. Dr. – Strange, is it? Wonderful work with the arm. I presume you also had a hand in it, Mr. Stark, and you, Dr. Cho. And of course, Nick – you’ve been a great friend over the years. I’ll be the saddest to lose you. Unfortunately, sometimes you have to sacrifice a few pieces before you can win the game.”

“What exactly is your goal here, Alex?” Fury asks, his uncovered eye twitching rapidly with what Clint assumes is rage.

Pierce sighs, disappointed. “Nick, you and I have discussed this before, and I thought we were on the same page. The world needs order, but too many people are just too unpredictable, especially when they’re part of an independent unit like the Avengers. If I recall correctly, you’re the one who created Project Insight. The entire purpose of that project is to create a secure, controlled world by pre-emptively terminating threats to society.”

“Oh, I still believe in Project Insight,” Fury says. “I just want to know who’s making the call about who’s a threat and who’s not. Now, my understanding here was that we were going after criminals _,_ but the Avengers and the docs here have saved hundreds of lives. On the other hand, it was the World Security Council that ordered a nuclear bomb to be dropped on Manhattan during the Battle of New York. If the Avengers hadn’t figured out a way to stop it, we’d all be nothing but nuclear ash by now.”

Pierce sighs heavily. “You know I didn’t have any input into that decision, Nick. I had just joined the Council and was hardly in a position to argue with its leaders. Not all of us can be like you and go against direct orders.”

“Your daughter would be an unmarked corpse in Bogotá if I hadn’t gone against direct orders two decades ago,” Fury snaps.

“I will always appreciate you for saving her life,” Pierce says, sincerely. He smiles and pats Bucky’s head like he’s a small child. “Did you know the Winter Soldier here was almost deployed for that mission? HYDRA was going to send him to shoot all the hostages, including my daughter, but he didn’t arrive in time. It turns out he kept refusing to leave the base without his little pet over there.” He gestures dismissively at Steve.

“By ‘little pet,’ do you mean Captain America, aka Steve Rogers?” Fury says, raising an eyebrow. Steve flinches minutely. Maybe he’s been listening after all. “You know,” Fury says with a frown, “the Soldier bears a striking resemblance to Bucky Barnes. I thought they were both dead.”

Rumlow laughs and jerks the leash, making Steve gasp for air. “Not dead, just frozen. But Pet here hasn’t been Captain America for a long time, not for at least forty years. And the Soldier hasn’t been Bucky Barnes since the 1950’s.”

“The 1950’s,” Fury says slowly. “Have you been with HYDRA for that long, Alex?”

Pierce shakes his head. “Oh, no, Nick. This year marks my twentieth anniversary with HYDRA. I joined shortly after Bogotá.”

“Wait, what?” Tony’s voice is a little garbled from his swollen jaw, but his incredulity comes through clearly. “You joined the organization that tried to kill your daughter?”

Pierce turns his gaze on Tony. “I wouldn’t be so quick to judge, Anthony. It was your father who made Pet’s chains, after all.” Steve shakes his head quickly, stopping when Rumlow yanks on the leash.

Tony makes a noncommittal noise. “Water under the bridge, and all that.” He gives Pierce a lopsided grin. “At least he died trying to get Rogers and Barnes away from you fuckers.”

Pierce laughs. “Where did you hear that story? Your father is dead because the Soldier killed him under our orders. Your mother happened to be collateral damage. Isn’t that right, Soldier?” He grasps Bucky by the hair and turns his face up toward Tony.

“What?” Tony whispers. “But –” He swallows hard and cuts his eyes across to Bucky. Bucky lowers his eyes, looking ashamed.  A tear drips down his cheek.

“Just ask Pet here. He was there too, and he didn’t do a single thing to help his old friend Howard or the lovely Maria.”

 “Stop,” says Tony, his voice cracking. He looks at Steve, who’s trembling with silent sobs, then back up at Pierce. He says flatly, “I don’t believe you.”

Pierce sighs, disappointed. “As satisfying as it would be to convince you by showing you the video, I’m afraid we’re already running behind schedule.” He turns and kneels beside Bucky, gripping his hair tightly. “Soldier, you’re up.”

Bucky howls like an animal as Pierce begins to recite a seemingly nonsensical string of Russian words. Tony lets out a choked gasp of horror, and somewhere beside Clint, Natasha inhales sharply. Steve lunges towards Bucky, choking himself on the leash and frantically shaking his head. _“Stop_ , _no, no,"_   he mouths and signs desperately, letting out a short, sharp yelp when a shock runs through the collar. He crumples to the ground, shuddering, then slowly crawls on his knees towards Bucky, pounding the floor with his fist when the leash stops him again.

After ten words, one near-seizure, and nonstop screaming, Bucky falls abruptly silent. His face is disturbingly blank as he stares up at Pierce.

 _“Soldier_ ,” says Pierce calmly in Russian.

 _“Ready to comply,”_ Bucky responds.

_“English, Soldier.”_

Bucky’s brow furrows slightly. “Ready to comply,” he repeats in English. His voice is hoarse and guttural from lack of use, and Clint gets a shiver down his spine. These are the first words any of them have ever heard Bucky speak – and they’re the ones fed to him by HYDRA.

“Good. Stand up, Soldier.”

Bucky shuffles upward slowly, his eyes fixed on Pierce. He doesn’t acknowledge anybody on the floor, not even Steve, who’s desperately twisting his head up, trying to catch Bucky’s eye and choking himself in the process.

“We’ve collected your targets for you, Soldier. They are on the floor. Do you see them?”

Bucky rotates his head like a marionette, swaying a little on his bound feet as he surveys the group on the floor. A tiny line appears in his brow when his eyes land on Steve.

“Oh, no, not that one,” says Pierce, smiling as Rumlow jerks Steve around to face Bucky. “That’s your reward. You’ll get him when you complete the mission.”

Bucky keeps studying Steve, staring at him like he’s a particularly tricky jigsaw puzzle piece that he doesn’t know how to place. Steve’s trembling. His eyes are glimmering with unshed tears, and his cheeks are flushed red. His hands are crossed again behind his back, and he’s clenching his fists so hard that blood is running down his palms.

Pierce lays a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “It’s okay if you’re confused. You may not remember, but you’ve had him as a reward before for completing other missions. Stay focused.”

Bucky blinks and swivels his gaze back to the semicircle. Rollins presses something in his pocket, and Bucky’s cuffs unlock and fall off. Bucky takes the gun Rollins presses into his hand, but he keeps it pointed at the floor as he adjusts his balance and swings his gaze back to Pierce.

“Stark first,” Pierce says, gesturing to Tony. “It’ll be nice to finish off the set, won’t it, Soldier?”

Bucky slowly lifts the gun. Steve strains against the leash, openly sobbing as he lifts his hands. _“No, no, no, please, stop_ ,” he pleads, staring up at Bucky, but Bucky doesn’t even glance his way. Instead, Bucky clicks the safety off and aims it at Tony’s forehead. His flesh hand is trembling too much to make a good shot, so he switches the gun to his metal one.

“Soldier, shoot now,” Pierce says with a hint of impatience.

Bucky’s finger snakes to the trigger.

Then, in a flash of movement, he swings the gun upward, presses it to his temple, and pulls.

“BUCKY! _NO!_ ” a deep, unfamiliar voice screams.

There’s a blur of motion at Clint’s left, followed by a deep, gut-wrenching scream. Steve breaks the lead off the leash with a loud snap and launches himself at Bucky’s head, wrapping his arms around Bucky’s neck and clinging to him like a limpet. The gun fires. The bullet, which previously had a straight path to Bucky’s brain, ricochets off Steve’s vibranium collar, grazes the metal arm, and hits Pierce square in the middle of the forehead. Pierce’s eyes widen with shock for a split second before he drops dead, a trail of blood slowly dribbling out of his ears onto the floor.

Shocked silence reigns for a full minute, and then all hell breaks loose.

“JARVIS, Green Giant release, now!” Tony shouts.

“Right away, Sir,” the AI answers.

Clint throws his head back, straight into the nose of the STRIKE agent holding him at gunpoint. He wrenches open the zip ties, grabs the dropped gun, and quickly positions himself back-to-back with Natasha. “This is just like Budapest!”

“We don’t talk about Budapest,” Natasha answers with gritted teeth as the Hulk comes charging down the hallway, dispersing screaming STRIKE agents in his path.

“Hey, big guy!” Tony calls above the fray. “Gather – don’t kill – anyone who’s in a S.H.I.E.L.D. or HYDRA uniform. Got it?”

“YES,” the Hulk shouts, and he roars as Rumlow and Rollins both shoot him in the leg. He bends down to pick them up, then rears back in surprise as Bucky, still dressed in nothing but briefs, picks up Rumlow by the neck and slams him against the wall. Rollins attempts to shoot Bucky, but Bucky stretches out his metal hand, and the bullet bounces off and hits Rollins in the collarbone. Rollins screams and falls to the ground, unconscious.

“Oh, shit,” Clint breathes. “Okay. Winter Soldier mode activated. I hope Bucky knows which people he’s supposed to be fighting.”

“Where’s Steve?” Natasha murmurs.

“Hopefully safe,” Clint mutters back. He doesn’t see Steve, Cho, Strange, or Tony anywhere, but it’s hard to tell what’s going on around the havoc that the Hulk and Bucky are wreaking. He spots Fury standing over Pierce’s body, defending himself with a single gun and loads of grim determination.

“Here goes,” Natasha murmurs, and she launches herself on top of Clint’s shoulders, leaps, and wraps her thighs around the neck of a STRIKE agent who’s aiming at Bucky’s shoulder. Clint hustles to get himself to a perch – the bookshelf in the conference room again – and begins picking off STRIKE agents from a distance. Bucky covers for Fury, Natasha, and the Hulk, liberally using his metal hand to block bullets that get too close. Occasionally, he’ll use hand-to-hand combat against a nearby agent. Clint momentarily gets distracted watching Bucky fight: he’s brutal, quick, and graceful, his style similar to Natasha’s, and Clint’s simultaneously terrified and a little bit turned on.

“Barton, focus!” Natasha hollers.

“Sorry!” Clint shakes himself and gets back to work.

The sun is rising by the time the fight ends. They’re left with thirty unconscious STRIKE agents, who they place into the Hulk containment room, and one dead Alexander Pierce, whose body they bag and place in a separate, locked room of the medical suite.

 “I’ve called Rhodey to take these guys into custody and take care of the body,” Tony tells them as they step out of the elevator and back into the suite. He’s holding the briefcase containing his Iron Man suit. Apparently, after he’d herded Steve, Cho, and Strange into an empty room and placed all sorts of security measures on it, he’d climbed out the window, broken into the basement, fetched his Iron Man suit, and rounded up some agents who had been hiding in various corners of the Tower. He’d then proceeded to knock out the agents and drop them in the Hulk containment room before rejoining the team in the medical suite and helping them fight.

“Are you sure that we can trust an officer of the U.S. Government?” Fury asks, frowning. “I know he’s a distinguished colonel, but –”

“We can trust Rhodey,” Tony answers, scowling. “Not like we have much of a choice now, anyway. The whole world now has incontrovertible proof that these guys are HYDRA.”

Before anyone can question what Tony means, Bucky stalks forward, his eyes wild, and points to the door of the locked room where Steve has been hiding.

“Oh, sorry,” says Tony, looking guilty. “I put codes on the doors and windows so no one could get in or out except for me. Here –” He quietly speaks a series of codes in the air to JARVIS, and the door unlocks with a click. Steve practically flies out toward Bucky, who lets out a relieved sigh and clutches Steve to his chest. They sink down to the floor together, shaking, heedless of the audience around them. Clint looks away to give them some privacy.

Bruce coughs quietly and steps out of another room, now dressed. “Everyone all right?” he asks, looking at Strange and Cho, who have stepped out of the safe room together. Both nod slowly, looking at the bloodstained, battered suite with wide eyes.

“Stark,” says Strange, “you owe me a hell of a bonus.”

“Me too,” Cho says, blowing out a long, slow breath.

“Does anyone need medical care?” asks Strange, looking closely at each of them.

“A shower, ice packs, and some field dressings should do it,” Natasha answers.

Strange frowns, but he doesn’t argue.

“Is it over? What about the chips and the helicarriers?” Cho asks.

“I believe I can answer that, Dr. Cho,” JARVIS says. “An hour ago, there was a large explosion at the Triskelion, specifically in the sub-basement where the Project Insight helicarriers were being stored. It seems that someone activated the helicarriers even though they were not yet up in the air, and the helicarriers proceeded to shoot at each other. Fortunately, there were no casualties, as the Triskelion building was empty due to the early hour.”

“Good,” says Fury, not seeming the least bit surprised. “It worked.”

Natasha narrows her eyes at him. “You planned this?”

“Not exactly,” says Fury, “but Stark and I set up a few safeguards in case things went to shit. Getting non-combatants into a safe room was one of them. Destroying the helicarriers before launch day was another. Carter and Hill activated the helicarriers on our signal while I was talking to Pierce. I wanted Pierce to know that they had been destroyed, but – well, that timing didn't work out.”

“What about the data dump?” asks Natasha.

“That worked…in a way,” says Tony. “Not all the information is out yet, but there’s enough out there for people to make the right connections. Hey! Anyone hungry? Shawarma? Pizza? I know this great twenty-four-hour ramen place. Though, I guess it’s breakfast time now… We can finally get food delivered to the Tower again – we should celebrate. Robocop, Blondie, you – oh, crap, where’d they go?” He sends a panicked glance to the rest of the team. “It’s only been two minutes. J, search the Tower –”

“Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes are in their room, sir,” JARVIS answers.

“What the – they’re almost as sneaky as you two,” Tony mutters, glancing at Natasha and Clint. He turns and peers into Steve and Bucky’s room. Clint looks over Tony’s shoulder. Bucky is sitting up in the bed, and Steve in his lap, tenderly stroking Bucky’s cheekbone with one hand while wiping the blood off Bucky’s face with another.

Tony turns around quickly. “We’ll get them food and let them know when it’s here,” he says in a strained voice. “Let’s let them have their private cuddle time.”

“Agreed,” says Clint.

“Breakfast,” Tony declares. “J, put in some orders for six of the breakfast platters from Robbie’s Café down the street.”

“Done, sir. I have also added fruit smoothies on the side per Miss Potts’ guidelines on healthy eating.”

“Thanks, J.”

“Let’s go get cleaned up while we wait for it to arrive,” Bruce suggests. “It’s been a long night for all of us.”

They all pile into the elevator and head off to their respective floors. Clint takes a moment to watch the sun rise over the Manhattan skyline, then he steps into the shower, letting the hot water wash away the stress of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warnings (all in part 2):  
> -Rumlow sexually assaults Steve in front of the STRIKE team, the Avengers, and the doctors.  
> -Bucky and Steve both dissociate to cope with their humiliation and helplessness.  
> -Bucky attempts to commit suicide to save the Avengers and the doctors.  
> -Alexander Pierce dies from a bullet to the head. 
> 
> If there are any warnings or tags I've missed, please let me know and I will add them accordingly.


	10. Pepper, part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pepper returns to the Tower, and the residents of the Tower all meet to discuss their next steps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience! It's been a busy few months. I'm hoping to have the next two chapters out by May at the latest.

The news headlines start coming in when Pepper's flying over the Pacific.

  * _Triskelion building, home of S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ, destroyed in suspicious underground gas explosion_
  * _Decrypted S.H.I.E.L.D. files dumped onto Internet showing "HYDRA target lists" of 20 million people_
  * _Interim S.H.I.E.L.D. director Alexander Pierce revealed to be HYDRA double agent, killed in gunfight at Stark (Avengers) Tower_
  * _Police sketches of S.H.I.E.L.D.-HYDRA double agents leaked by anonymous users_
  * _What we know about the S.H.I.E.L.D.-HYDRA scandal so far_
  * _Who is the Winter Soldier? A list of assassinations attributed to the "ghost story" of the intelligence community_



And last but not least:

  * _"Not dead, just frozen": Leaked audio files from Avengers Tower gunfight hint that Captain America and right-hand man Sergeant Bucky Barnes have been captives of HYDRA for over 50 years_



"Oh, Tony," Pepper breathes, "what did you do?"

* * *

"I did what I had to!" Tony exclaims twelve hours later, gesturing wildly over the conference table. Then he winces and hisses, slapping the ice pack back over his bruised jaw. "Ow, ow, bad idea. Talking hurts."

"Then why do you keep opening your mouth?" asks Rhodey, leaning back in his chair as he raises his eyebrows.

Tony huffs and scowls. "Because I'm trying to prove my point, and no one is agreeing with me."

Natasha exhales loudly, crossing her arms over her chest. She looks almost normal except for the dark circles under her eyes and the bandages wrapped around her palms. "It should have been their choice, Stark. We promised them that."

"I don't know. Stark did the best he could under the circumstances, all things considered," says Fury, leaning back with the slightest wince.

 _"Thank you_ ," says Tony, gesturing expansively at Fury. "Look, your boss says I'm right."

"He's not my boss anymore," Natasha responds with a shark-like smile, baring all her teeth. "Didn't you hear? My boss is officially dead, and my workplace just went down in flames."

"Oh, burn," Rhodey mutters under his breath.

Next to him, Clint lets out a whistle of agreement. "Literally," he whispers.

Fury's eye twitches.

"Would anyone care to fill me in?" asks Pepper loudly. "Also, did you know the door was open?"

Tony startles so much that he falls out of his chair. Rhodey waves. Clint wheels around slowly, and Natasha and Fury cut glances toward her, their faces smoothing out into expressionless masks.

Pepper shuts the door behind her and sinks down into the chair next to Tony's, looking around at the assembled group. "What happened? The press is pumping out dozens of speculative articles right now, and from what I saw outside, they're already trying to descend on the Tower like a horde of angry locusts."

Everyone looks at Tony, who makes a zipper motion across his lips. "Talking hurts, remember?" he says in a stage whisper. Natasha gives him an unamused look as Rhodey sighs.

Fury clears his throat. "The long and short of it is, Miss Potts, is that HYDRA, the Nazi organization from World War II previously thought defeated by Captain America, has been working within S.H.I.E.L.D for several years. HYDRA tried to kill me, Agent Romanoff, and Agent Barton at S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ last week. They almost succeeded, but we made it here in time to get treatment for our injuries. Last night S.H.I.E.L.D.'s – that is, HYDRA's STRIKE team, led by Alexander Pierce, infiltrated the Tower and took us hostage. We fought them. Pierce was killed by a stray bullet that hit him in the head."

"Tony called me after the fight was over to take care of Pierce's body and take custody of the HYDRA agents," says Rhodey. He grimaces a little. "The docs helped me sedate the agents and remove the cyanide capsules hidden in their fake teeth. Captain America and Sergeant Barnes gave me that little piece of intel." He blows out a breath. "Let me tell you, that was a hell of a shocker. I can't believe you've kept them hidden for almost two months."

"I only found out about their existence three days ago," says Fury, giving Natasha and Clint a dead-eyed stare.

Natasha stares back at him impassively. Clint shrugs and says, "They weren't really in a state to be debriefed when we found them."

"In retrospect, it's a good thing they didn't end up in S.H.I.E.L.D. custody or in any S.H.I.E.L.D. reports," says Natasha dryly.

"Where are Steve and Bucky?" asks Pepper, looking around.

"They're getting checked over by the docs down in the medical suite," Clint answers. "JARVIS said he'll send the whole group up when they're done."

"Back to the topic on hand," says Natasha, breaking her staring contest with Fury to pin Tony with a glare. "The leaked footage of the fight. How and when did this happen? We only agreed to leak Steve's sketches of HYDRA and the HYDRA target lists from Insight, not information on Steve and Bucky."

"I mean, obviously it didn't go _exactly_ as planned," says Tony defensively, "but I had to think on my feet, being held at gunpoint and all. I can't control whatever stories the journos are making up in the aftermath."

Pepper sighs and stands, coming to the head of the table and pulling on her CEO persona like a cloak. "Okay, hold on. Start from the beginning. Tell me what the original plan was regarding the data you leaked, and then tell me how it changed. From there, we can make a plan on how to deal with the press."

The original plan, it turns out, was to leak data about Project Insight and HYDRA's infiltration of S.H.I.E.L.D. on Saturday morning, right after the Project Insight helicarriers exploded over the Triskelion. When HYDRA attacked the Tower, Fury and Tony activated an emergency plan that only the two of them had agreed upon. Tony broadcasted live audio from the hostage situation and ensuing fight to several major AM radio stations throughout the United States. This signaled Fury's agents at S.H.I.E.L.D., Maria Hill and Sharon Carter, to trigger the helicarriers into shooting at each other.

"HYDRA shut down JARVIS and jammed all our access points to the Internet with some well-placed scramblers and firewalls, but the Internet's not the only way to communicate," says Tony, dropping his ice pack and waving his hands excitedly. "They didn't account for the backup analog antenna I built into the Tower. I just added it in as a 3 AM aside during initial construction, but when the spy kids and Director Mad-Eye here came back all bloody and beaten, I went and dusted it off and made sure it worked.

"The beauty of it is that there's nothing HYDRA could have done to stop it. They focused on modern digital communication, and I used Baby's First Circuit Kit and built a ton of little AM transmitters and repeaters throughout the Tower. I flooded every conceivable channel with the signal – well, all of them except the emergency service bands. No need to ruffle the feathers of the good firemen of New York, and as much as I'd like to piss off the FCC, I'd rather do it some other way. Anyway, even if HYDRA somehow slapped together some analog jammers, which they didn't, they only had to miss one band for the signal to still get through. And that's not even mentioning the line-of-sight laser transmission system I put in as a backup to our backup, or the quantum entanglement transmitter, or the magnetic –"

"Excuse me, Sir," JARVIS interrupts. "Doctors Banner, Cho, and Strange have finished their assessments of Sergeant Barnes and Captain Rogers. They are all on their way up now and will arrive in five minutes."

"Okay, thanks, J."

Fury cuts in before Tony can continue. "Stark managed to activate the broadcast when Pierce arrived in the medical suite, where we were all being held at gunpoint. I kept Pierce talking until Stark could get JARVIS back online. I only intended for him to admit HYDRA's involvement with S.H.I.E.L.D." Fury's face twists with distaste. "I didn't account for his obsession with torturing Rogers and Barnes."

"After Pierce got shot and I managed to get Steve and the docs to safety, I cut off the broadcast and dumped all the Insight data from the chips and Steve's sketches of HYDRA agents online, but I masked the origin of the data so it can't be traced back to us," says Tony. "And voila! Here we are."

A knock on the door echoes throughout the room. The doorknob turns slowly, and Bruce cautiously pokes his head in. "Is this a good time to interrupt?"

"Come on in," says Pepper. "Good to see you, Bruce."

"You too, Pepper."

Bruce, Steve, Bucky, Strange, and Helen file into the room slowly, taking the empty chairs on the other half of the table. Steve and Bucky scoot theirs together so closely that they both end up sitting in a spot meant for one chair, at the far end of the table directly across from Pepper. They're both clean and dressed, but they look exhausted, and they're clutching each other's bandaged hands tightly as if they're afraid to let go. Pepper's heart breaks a little at the sight. She smiles gently at them, then makes eye contact with each of the doctors. "I'm glad to see you're all here and safe. It's good to see you all."

"Thank you," says Helen, rubbing her eyes. Strange gives a short nod and looks around the table with an assessing gaze.

Bruce covers a yawn and slouches down into his chair. "What did we miss?"

Tony and Fury both open their mouth to answer, but Natasha beats them to it. She gives a quick, efficient recap of the data dump they discussed, starting with Tony's live broadcast – Steve and Bucky both go pale at that – and ending with the originally planned leaks of information. "Any questions?" she asks.

Steve lifts his hands. His face is ashen. _"R-U-S-S-I-A-N words? Now everyone knows them?"_

Natasha nods, her face twisting into an apologetic grimace.

Bucky takes a sharp breath. He shakes his head frantically, tears glimmering in his eyes.

Rhodey looks around, confused. "Back up. What are these words? What do they do?"

Bucky lifts his trembling hands. _"You say words, I forget. I obey. Cannot fight. Impossible."_  His breath hitches, and he hangs his head, letting his hair fall forward over his face. Steve clenches his jaw and takes Bucky's flesh hand, running a soothing thumb over his knuckles.

"Anyone who says the words can control you," says Natasha.

"And this doesn't have to be live, right? It still works if you hear a recording?" asks Clint.

Bucky nods.

"And now over half of the United States has heard the words since the entire recording of last night's events has been put on the Internet," says Rhodey, holding up his phone to show the front page of the _Washington Post._ He hisses through his teeth. "Pretty soon that recording will be dissected into little pieces and disseminated all over the world."

"We can fix this," says Tony, but he sounds uncertain. He glances over at Natasha, whose mouth is set in a tight line, then at Clint, who has a pained look on his face. Tony points to Clint. "Hey, wait, Barton. Didn't Romanoff snap you out of it when Loki used the scepter on you?"

"Cognitive recalibration," says Clint, nodding. "Nat gave me a concussion. But I'm pretty sure this problem is way more complex."

Strange cuts in, "If we did some imaging while the words were being recited – in a controlled environment, of course – it might be possible to evaluate the neurological impact and then develop an intervention that effectively prevents them from triggering the…consequent behavior. Dr. Cho, perhaps some kind of genetic manipulation is possible? Or a customized implant, maybe –"

 _"No,"_ Steve slashes his fingers down, shaking his head firmly. Bucky's trembling hard now.

"No implants," Helen agrees, gazing at Bucky in concern. "It's probable that Bucky's body would reject a foreign object due to the serum. After all, his brain tissue, and Steve's, grew back after several rounds of electroshock."

A tense silence falls, broken only by Bucky's shallow gasps of air. Steve rubs Bucky's back, slowly holding up one finger at a time in Bucky's line of sight. Bucky's breath gradually slows to match the wordless count, but his hands still shake as he wraps his arms around himself.

Strange clears his throat once Bucky's regained color in his cheeks, glancing at Helen, Bruce, and Tony, before finally settling on Bucky, who doesn't look up. "I didn't mean putting an implant in your brain, Barnes," he says, enunciating slowly as if he were talking to a small child. "I meant the arm. It's connected the nervous system, isn't it?"

Bucky flinches.

Steve glares at Strange. His hands are a blur of motion as he signs, _"No shocks. No pain. No chemicals. No surgery. No experiments. No."_

Strange huffs. "What do you take me for, some kind of mad scientist?"

The anger on Steve's face ratchets up another notch, and his hands curl into fists.

Bruce coughs quietly to defuse the tension. "So if the words are spoken, and you, what, programmed the arm to send some kind of counter-impulse…"

"There would be a delay, though. The pulse would have to travel through several different tissue types," says Helen, leaning forward with a thoughtful look on her face. "And even then it might transform into something different – but theoretically…"

"Theoretically it's possible," says Tony, rubbing his hands together with an excited expression. "Right?"

"Even if it _is_ possible, that doesn't solve our current problem," says Fury, his eyes flicking over to Bucky and Steve. "The trigger words are spreading online as we speak. What are we going to do about it?"

"J, get all of SI's media law team on an urgent video conference call in twenty minutes so we can discuss removing any mention of the words from the web or any other form of communication," says Pepper. She glances at Fury. "I'll tell them that it's a classified undercover code that shouldn't be out in the public domain. They won't need more than that."

"The tenth floor conference room has been set up for your needs, Miss Potts," says JARVIS.

"Thank you, J. Please pull up a screen and transcribe some abbreviated notes for me here while I list some of our options for dealing with the media."

Pepper waits for the holographic screen to form in the center of the table, then holds up one finger. "Number one, complete denial. Pull any mentions of Steve and Bucky from the web. Deny any knowledge that they're here, that we've met them, that they even exist. Steve, Bucky, we could easily set you up with new identities that you could use to re-integrate into society and live out your public life. The main danger would be someone recognizing you for who you are, but you could easily deny that as long as they didn't get too close and manage to grab a DNA sample of some sort."

Bucky's track slowly across the screen as he reads the abbreviated notes. Steve's brow furrows deeply as he looks over the plan. Pepper waits, but neither of them says anything, so she continues. "Number two, the truth. Set up a press conference with both of you present. Let the press take their photos. Make a statement that the Avengers rescued you from a HYDRA base and that you've been recovering for a couple of months using SI and Avengers resources. Tell the press to please respect your privacy while they recover and re-integrate into society. Tie this into the fact that you were giving the Avengers information that HYDRA infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D. – or not," says Pepper when Fury and Natasha both frown. "Either way, the press gets their fill and we get to control the narrative to some extent."

"The paps, though," says Tony darkly. "They'll never leave you alone."

"There are ways to get around that," says Natasha with a small shrug. "But what about the words? If just one person plays back a recording, or decides to recite them –"

"Hey, what's that Greek story where the guy plugs his ears while he's passing the sirens that are trying to drown him?" Clint interrupts. "The…Odyssey? Odysseus?"

Pepper nods. "That's a good idea. If we did a press conference, some sort of preventive measure would be necessary. Of course, we'd screen everyone who chose to attend, and you'd all be suited up, too, for both branding and security."

"Is there a third option?" asks Bruce. "These both seem like a lot to deal with all at once."

Pepper reads over the notes, considering. "Stagger and mix. Feed the press by giving them answers to more pressing questions – S.H.I.E.L.D., HYDRA, Pierce's death. Bury the story of Steve and Bucky's existence for now. We can release a written statement that says they're still recovering and aren't up for meeting anyone new yet, and then hold a press conference later when they're more up for it – when there's a solution to the words, for example, or when they..."  She almost says "when they can speak," but she cuts herself off at the last minute. "When they've recovered a little more. Or, we can decide not to reveal them identity to the public at all. Let enough news cycles pass and let those still speculating over their existence be labeled conspiracy theorists." She grimaces. "That's not an ideal solution, but we can iron out the details later."

Pepper clears her throat and glances at the pair. Steve meets her gaze steadily, and Bucky glances at her through his curtain of hair before shifting his eyes back to the notes in front of him. "I'm sorry. I've been talking about you like you're not here. What do you two want to do?"

Steve exhales slowly, rubbing his thumb over Bucky's knuckles over and over as he considers the text in front of him. Bucky huddles in closer to Steve, his eyes still slowly moving from side to side as he reads. After five minutes pass in silence, Bucky tugs his hand out of Steve's grasp and holds up three fingers.

"Option three, Bucky?" Pepper confirms.

Bucky nods once.

"Steve, what do you think?"

Steve holds up three fingers.

"You agree with option three?"

Steve nods. He tugs his sweatshirt down to reveal the vibranium collar still encircled around his neck. He points to it and then signs, _"First, this comes off."_ He uses his index finger and thumb to circle his wrists, puts his wrists together, and then points at his ankles. _"The cuffs come off."_ He points to his throat, then to Bucky. _"We heal. We learn to speak. Again."_ Then he mimes taking a photograph. _"After that, photographs and media."_

"I can remove the cuffs," Tony interjects. "I was putting the finishing touches on a solution when HYDRA attacked. I just wanted to run it by the docs first."

 _"Thank you, T-O-N-Y,"_ Steve signs, pinning Tony with a sincere gaze.

Tony squirms in his chair and clears his throat uncomfortably. "Don't thank me yet. Not till it works."

"I'll start setting up a residential suite here for you later tonight," says Pepper. "There's no reason for you to stay in the medical suite long-term."

"Hang on," says Fury, crossing his arms over his chest and then dropping them with a slight wince. "Wouldn't a safehouse be better? This Tower is a very public, very well-known location, and HYDRA is bound to try to infiltrate it. Again."

"Do you know of any safehouses that aren't affiliated with S.H.I.E.L.D.?" asks Natasha, raising an eyebrow.

"That's a good point," says Clint. "We don't know how far down HYDRA's roots go. Putting Steve and Bucky into a safehouse might be like serving them up to HYDRA on a silver platter. I mean, the safehouse you sent us to got blown up by the S.H.I.E.L.D. STRIKE team. Or HYDRA's STRIKE team. Whichever."

"The primary reason that safehouse got blown up is because you two stuck a flash drive where it didn't belong," says Fury with a huff.

"I did not need that mental image," Tony mutters.

Rhodey groans and drops his face in his hands. "Why, Tony, why?" he mumbles.

Pepper clears her throat pointedly and directs her attention back to Steve and Bucky. "Fury makes a good point. I shouldn't have assumed you'd want to stay in the Tower. You should get to decide where you want to be, both short-term or long-term. We'll advise you on the pros and cons of your choice, of course, but whatever you do, we'll provide you with resources, no strings attached."

"Who's 'we'?" Strange mutters.

Pepper ignores him and continues, "While I was gone, I was working on vetting different specialists that could help you adapt and transition back into living your life. I've got shortlists of experts in speech therapy, physical therapy, social work, psychotherapy, psychiatry, veterans' support, veterans' affairs, military law, human rights law…any and every type of person you can imagine that can help you besides the people sitting in this room. But I'm sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself again. The only question we need to focus on right now is – where would you like to stay right now?"

"So to make it clear," Helen jumps in, "right now the two choices are the Tower and – some other undetermined safe place?"

"Yes," says Pepper.

Bucky hesitantly lifts his hands. _"Here_ , _please,"_ he signs, glancing at Steve.

Steve nods. _"We know you,"_ he explains, _"We trust you. You always help us."_

Fury sighs and clears his throat. "I'd like to propose some conditions."

Steve's jaw tightens, and his hands curl into fists as he meets Fury's gaze. _"You do not own us. You do not control us."_

"I know I don't," says Fury, looking back at Steve steadily, "but there are people out there who will stop at nothing to do just that. We need to minimize that risk."

Steve lets out a long, slow breath. He glances at Bucky, who gives him a defeated look full of despair.

"Hear me out," says Fury. "I'm not being unreasonable here. All I'm asking is that you stay in the Tower until the situation is more stable."

"Define 'more stable,'" says Natasha, tilting her head.

Fury sighs. "'More stable', meaning, stay inside until there's a way around the trigger words and until all of HYDRA's top players have been apprehended."

"You're proposing house arrest for an indeterminate amount of time," says Bruce, frowning.

Bucky makes a soft sound in his throat, and everyone shares a startled moment around the table as they wonder if he's about to speak. Instead, he lifts his hands and says, " _Fine. Smart plan. I agree."_ He points to himself, and then his head. _"Dangerous for everyone."_

Steve rubs his temples, an unhappy frown on his face. _"Fine. But we stay together."_

Bucky nods and reaches out his flesh hand to rub gentle circles on Steve's back. Steve's face softens, and he shifts closer to Bucky as he pushes his blonde hair off his forehead. It's grown out fast since Pepper last saw him; his bangs almost cover his eyes now.

"The more intel we get on HYDRA, and the quicker we can find a solution to the trigger words, then the shorter that house arrest will be," says Fury, training his gaze on Steve and Bucky. "Captain Rogers, Sergeant Barnes, we could really use your help in taking HYDRA down."

Steve blows out a breath and lifts his jaw, a stubborn look on his face. _"We help you, we tell you what we know. We help you defeat HYDRA. But afterward, you leave us alone. We don't want to fight. We don't want – soldier life. Understand?"_

"Understood," says Fury, with a slight dip of his head. "After this, you're discharged."

 _"Permanent discharge,"_ Steve insists, then gestures to himself and to Bucky. _"Both of us."_

"Hey," says Rhodey hesitantly, "speaking of discharges, I've been thinking – once your identity's been re-established, legally and such, you're probably owed a shit-ton of overdue back-pay. Both of you have been listed as MIA for decades, and for some reason, your status never got changed. I'll work on that part for you, if you like. It's going to involve a fair amount of politics, but I think I know how to swing it."

Steve and Bucky both turn slowly to give Rhodey confused stares. Pepper wonders when they last had the time and energy to think about money. At least 60 years, she figures, a chill running down her spine. She shakes it off and straightens her shoulders. "It's a good idea, thank you, Rhodey. We'll keep you looped in as we figure out our strategy." She looks around the table, making eye contact with each person. "All right. Do we all know what our next steps are?"

Tony stands up, grabbing his soggy, dripping ice pack and slapping it onto his jaw. "Helen, Bruce, and – you –" He gestures vaguely in Strange's direction. "Come to the workshop with me and reassure me that I won't accidentally be amputating any limbs."

Rhodey turns to look at Fury. "Are you still officially dead?"

Fury shrugs. "Probably not, now that everyone's heard my voice on the Internet and radio."

"Great. That makes things easier." He glances at Natasha and Clint. "I need to get official statements from all three of you since you're ex-S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, and then we can all strategize about what to do with the remnants of S.H.I.E.L.D. and HYDRA."

"I want to contact my people at S.H.I.E.L.D. and bring them in," says Fury. "Sharon Carter and Maria Hill. They're underground right now. If you authorize them to stay here temporarily, Stark, then at least they'll be safe."

"I don't say this to, well, anyone, but mi casa es su casa," says Tony. "J, open up a couple of guest rooms, please, with security restriction level KITT."

"Yes, Sir," says JARVIS.

"KITT, Tony? Really?" asks Rhodey.

"Uh, it was either that or WOPR, which just makes me hungry," Tony shoots back. "I already used Skynet and HAL."

"Speaking of Whoppers, I'm kind of hungry. Anyone want burgers?" asks Clint, shooting a hopeful look around the room.

"I do," says Strange, crossing his arms defensively when everyone stares at him. "What? I'm allowed to have an appetite."

"What do you two want to do?" Pepper asks Steve and Bucky, who are watching the proceedings with a sort of bewildered amusement.

"Cap – I mean, sorry, Steve, Bucky, you're welcome to join our meeting, give us your intel on HYDRA," says Rhodey.

"Or you can come up and see how I'm planning to remove that metal around your neck and limbs without decapitating and dismembering you," says Tony.

"Tony, why –" Bruce shakes his head, exchanging an exasperated glance with Rhodey. "Well, that's technically correct, but…just, never mind."

Steve and Bucky stand together. Bucky braces himself against the table as Steve juts out his jaw and lifts his hands. _"We want to rest,"_ Steve signs, a determined look on his face. He takes Bucky's metal hand and rubs slowly over the joints, then squeezes Bucky's hand. With the other, he signs, _"Please. That's all._ "

Pepper blinks back the sudden wetness in her eyes. "Of course you can rest," she says, swallowing the lump in her throat. "Take as long as you need."

Bruce says quietly, "We'll wake you if it's medically necessary or if there's an emergency, but otherwise we'll leave you alone so you can recover."

"We can handle things for a while," says Clint, nodding. "Sleep is good."

 _"Thank you,"_ Bucky signs, shoulders slumping with obvious relief.

Pepper nods. "Of course." She glances at the time displayed at the corner of the holographic screen. She has two minutes till her meeting. "I've got to get ready for the next meeting, but I'll have JARVIS put some furniture and home goods catalogs on your tablet so you can start picking out what you want your suite to look like here. You're welcome to make it as homey as possible." She gives them a small smile. "Get some rest."

Pepper bends down to give Tony a quick peck on his unbruised cheek, and then she strides toward the elevator.  "Never a day's rest," she murmurs to herself, shaking her head as she forcefully wills away her exhaustion. Still, she can't help but feel anything but grateful that Tony and everyone else in the Tower made it out alive and unharmed. She doesn't want to imagine how she might have responded if she came back to see the Tower a smoking ruin and the team dead or captured. (She might have been tempted to inject herself with the emergency vial of Extremis hidden deep in the secret Tower vault. She's glad she didn't have to make that choice.)

The elevator doors open, and Pepper takes a deep breath, adjusting her hair and makeup with a small handheld mirror before sitting down and joining the video call that JARVIS has pulled up for her. "Hi, everyone, thank you for being here," she says, scanning the faces staring back at her from various floating windows and hoping that none of them belong to HYDRA agents. Then she launches into a brief explanation of what she needs, comfortably settling into her CEO persona as she prepares for the inevitable questions ahead.


	11. Steve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve recalls parts of his captivity and visits an old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please heed the tags.

Steve breathes out slowly as he examines his naked body in the soft golden light of the bathroom.

He starts at the top. His face has filled out after decades of malnutrition, and his hair has finally grown out so that he has a full fringe flopping over his forehead. It's short at the back and sides thanks to Bucky, who cut it earlier today with a sniper's careful precision after watching several YouTube video tutorials. Steve had confiscated the tablet after the fifteenth video and impatiently gestured toward the stool sitting atop the kitchen floor. Bucky had huffed, pointedly laid down newspapers on the floor, and gathered up the supplies before wetting Steve's hair with a comb.

The damp tufts of hair had tickled as they fell down his naked chest. Tony had provided a barber's apron, but Steve can hardly stand having something around his neck these days, so he'd foregone it. He takes another deep breath as he runs his fingers through the soft hair growing on his chest, then gently pats the hair under his arms and around his groin. His legs have yet to catch up – there's only one sparse patch on his right knee – but he's not worried. It'll take time to flush away the hormones that HYDRA's hidden implant had been pumping into his system. (Bucky had one, too; it's since been removed.)

Steve peers at the thin scar at the crook of his elbow, wondering when HYDRA had put in the implant. Probably during that brain surgery sometime in the 2000's, which is why Steve can't remember it. And it seems like something the American HYDRA Commander – Alexander Pierce, Steve reminds himself – would do. Pierce was obsessed, in his own sick way, with the "appreciating the artistry" of Bucky and Steve's bodies. The _click-click_ of Pierce's camera haunts Steve's nightmares on the daily. Steve hadn't really noticed the sound while he and Bucky were being tortured, only the blinding flashes of light that illuminated their humiliation, but now he hears it every time he's drifting off to sleep.

The serum was a blessing and a curse, Steve thinks ruefully. It'd given him advanced healing, which had eliminated his former health problems and let him brush off injuries that would've killed the average person, but it had also allowed HYDRA to experiment on him endlessly without fear that he'd die. It'd given him an eidetic memory, which had been an indisputable boon during the war, but a definite bane during his long captivity. Steve hadn't realized that the serum enhanced his auditory memory until HYDRA took away his voice. It had been an exquisite form of torture, being able to remember every single sound clearly while no longer being permitted to make any.

Steve digs his nails into his palms, resisting the urge to scratch as he presses his fingers against his Adam's apple and swallows. The sensation is still new and bizarre after so many years of having smooth, unbreakable metal at the same spot.

It had been easy for Tony to get rid of the vibranium cuffs on Steve's wrists and ankles, but the removal of the collar had left permanent damage. After over a decade of close contact, the skin covering Steve's Adam's apple had grown in and attached to the underside of the collar. When Tony's lasers made the final cut against the metal, the collar had fallen away from Steve's throat, ripping out swaths of skin as its pieces dropped to the ground. Steve had been so relieved to be free of its weight that he hadn't even noticed the blood dripping down his throat. Bucky, however –

Bucky had screamed for the first time in years, splitting everyone's eardrums and galvanizing the rest of the room into action. Dr. Cho rushed to set up and position her Cradle machine, and Dr. Strange and Dr. Banner worked in tandem with JARVIS to set up a series of projections: a close-up video of Steve's healing throat (they'd moved that out of Steve's eyeline when they noticed his blood pressure rising); a mesh model of Steve's skin knitting itself back together (Tony had fixated on that immediately, his mouth running a mile a minute about its specs as the color slowly filtered back into his face); and Steve's vital signs, which Bucky stared at unwaveringly, his still, blank expression belying the anxiety Steve knew was thrumming through his veins.

It'd only taken six hours for a raw, pink circle to reappear around Steve's throat; it'd taken another six for the rest of the skin to grow back. Even with Dr. Cho's Cradle machine and the lingering serum in Steve's blood, a scar remains. It itches frequently, but Steve has lots of practice in forcing himself not to respond to his body's sensations. Besides, it's not the worst that Steve's ever experienced. HYDRA had frequently cut off chunks of his flesh and measured how long he would take to recover, and nothing can compare to the irritating, unsettling feeling of nerves, muscles, blood vessels growing back and sending confused alarm signals to the rest of the body.

Steve remembers, in fine, horrific detail, every single thing that HYDRA did to him and Bucky – at least the things for which he was awake. He spent several years in a dreamless coma in the Arctic before HYDRA found him and thawed him out. When Steve woke to Bucky's tearful face, he'd thought that he'd finally made it to heaven. "Bucky," he'd whispered – and then there had been rough hands on his arms, a cold, sharp prick against his neck, and Bucky's anguished screams fading into the distance: "Steve! Steve! _Steve_ –"

When Steve returned to consciousness, he was strapped down to a metal table, and Arnim Zola was hovering over him with a look of cautious fascination.

"Where's…Bucky?" Steve asked, slow and slurred. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth.

"Bucky?" An unnerving smile curved across Zola's face. "I presume you mean the Soldier formerly known as Sergeant Barnes? He is, ah, _sleeping_ , until further notice. Now please hold still, Captain. I do not wish to injure you unnecessarily."

Steve struggled, of course, but the restraints against his neck, chest, and limbs held strong and his body felt as weak as a newborn's. For a terrifying moment he thought that he'd been made small again, but he managed to twist his head enough to catch sight of his bulky muscles before the silver glint of a needle caught his attention. He gritted his teeth, swallowing a gasp as the needle penetrated the meat of his left arm.

"What're…you…doing?"

Zola ignored him and calmly filled a huge syringe full of Steve's blood, then proceeded to attach an IV to the crook of Steve's right elbow. Steve felt it more than he could see it, too busy being blinded by the bright overhead light shining directly onto his face. He tried to curl his hands into fists, but the most he could do was make his index finger twitch.

Later, he found out that the IV contained a sedative especially designed to contain supersoldiers. Zola had developed it by experimenting on Bucky, who Zola had injected with his own version of the supersoldier serum. Steve's mouth had filled with bile upon hearing that, and he'd spat in Zola's taunting face. It had been a brief and pyrrhic victory that resulted in a muzzle strapped over his face like a dog and the rest of him restrained in a stress position that he'd been forced to hold for hours in a tiny cell, wrists bound to ankles and neck leashed to the wall.

Steve tried his hardest to break the restraints, but they, too had been developed for a supersoldier. All he could do was endure while other forms of torture rained down upon him: extreme temperatures that alternated between freezing cold and boiling hot, long periods of pitch-black darkness and headache-inducing brightness that prevented him from sleeping, actual water trickling onto his head and into his eyes from a vent somewhere above, and worst of all, some kind of gas that filled Steve's lungs and made Steve feel like a ninety-pound asthmatic all over again.

Much of Steve's early captivity passed in a similar manner, with an endless cycle of torture, sedation, and experimentation, interspersed with sparse, tasteless meals consisting of a dense slop that Steve could barely choke down. Steve was initially surprised by the lack of interrogation; he hadn't been planning on giving them an inch, but not a single person asked him one question about the SSR, the U.S. government, or even the serum. Instead, Zola treated him like a human specimen and the Soviet HYDRA agents like a convenient punching bag on which to unleash their boredom, frustration, and anger.

Steve almost preferred the beatings and the experiments to the long periods of isolation in his cell. When he was alone, he ruminated obsessively about Bucky suffering the same way, alone and afraid while Steve slept unaware in the ice. Of course, this inevitably led to fantasies of escaping with Bucky, which led to Steve frantically trying to break free of his restraints, succeeding in doing nothing more than bloodying or breaking his wrists, hands, or ankles or, in one instance, giving himself a concussion when he smashed his skull against the concrete floor.

One day, the guards dragged Steve out of his cell and forced him face-first against an ice-cold metal tube in the corner of a room he'd never been in. Steve couldn't see through the frosted window at first, but then a light flickered on, illuminating the inside. The first thing Steve saw was a robotic metal hand pressed against the glass, and the next was --

"Bucky," Steve breathed in horror, squinting at the pale, frozen face in front of him. "Bucky!" He wrenched his arms free and began to pound on the glass with a trembling fist, his other hand searching desperately for the door.

"Captain, I would refrain from damaging the cryostasis tube," Zola said from a distance, "The extraction procedure is a very delicate, and improper protocol may risk the Soldier's life."

Steve whirled around, one hand already outstretched for Zola's throat. The guards seized their chance to wrench his arms behind him and force Steve to his knees. One of them struck the space between Steve's shoulders with his baton, grunting something in Russian that Steve vaguely recognized as _"Down."_

Steve hissed and jutted out his jaw, forcing himself to speak past the pain radiating outward from his spine. "What do you want?"

"It is very simple, Captain. I want you to stop fighting. I want you to comply, just as the Soldier does." Zola's eyes flicked upward to Bucky's face. "I would hate to terminate the Soldier after spending so much time on perfecting him, but there is no need to waste the storage space when we have you right in front of us. You are Specimen Prime, the very original sample, and your body is much more valuable than his."

Steve heard the underlying threat loud and clear: Zola wouldn't hesitate to kill Bucky if Steve didn't cooperate. Steve forced himself to go limp in the guards' grip as Zola took another step closer, tilting his head and eyeing Steve in an extremely unsettling way.

"I have a proposal for you, Captain. If you agree to participate in my current experiment, then I will release the Soldier from the tube. I will even allow you to stay with him while he thaws and recovers his function. It is a generous offer, don't you agree? A one-time deal made in honor of the Soldier's birthday." Zola chuckled at the look on Steve's face. "Did you not know? Time is relative, I suppose, but the Soldier turns…I suppose he would be about forty-seven years old tomorrow, if he had aged at the normal rate. As it is, his body and mind are still approximately that of a thirty-year-old's."

Forty-seven. Bucky fell off the train in 1945, a month shy of his twenty-eighth birthday.

It was 1964.

The world fell away for a moment as Steve closed his eyes, clenching his jaw hard as he fought against sudden vertigo. He had missed nineteen entire years. Nineteen years he slept in the ice while Bucky –

The humming of the cryostasis tube, which had only been a distant background noise, suddenly sounded like a roar in his ears. Steve's eyes snapped open, and he twisted his head around frantically, grunting when the HYDRA guard struck him with the baton again. Steve wobbled a little and tightened his jaw. "I accept your offer," he said, his voice sounding distant to his own ears, "Just this once. Don't want to commit myself to any future projects just yet, you understand."

Zola smirked and gestured to the guards, who roughly hauled Steve up from the floor. "You will not regret this, Captain. I'm sure of it."

That was the first time Steve was strapped down into the Chair. It was far from the last.

Steve shivers against a sudden chill, squinting at the spots where the metal halos used to press against his skull. There's nothing but smooth skin – no sign that the Chair had ever inflicted so much unbearable, agonizing pain that Steve lost time for days. He's lucky that it never succeeded in erasing his memory, although it had erased Bucky's several times with the assistance of the Russian trigger words. HYDRA always made sure Steve was present when Bucky got put in the Chair: as punishment for disobeying an order, as entertainment for the HYDRA guards, and as mission prep and maintenance immediately before and after cryostasis. Watching the light go out of Bucky's eyes each time felt like getting stabbed in the heart, over and over. Watching him thaw from cryo had been even harder.

Zola had kept his word that day in 1964. After putting Steve through several rounds of "targeted electroshock therapy," he'd retracted the metal halos and left Steve restrained in the Chair, which was in the same room as the cryo tube. At midnight, Zola opened the tube, and Steve's heart jumped in fear as ice-cold air permeated the room: What if Zola had lied, and Bucky was nothing but a frozen corpse? But then the guards ungraciously dragged Bucky over and dumped him at Steve's feet, and Bucky shivered so violently that his hand brushed against Steve's bare feet. Steve let out a huge sigh of relief that had the guards tittering from their positions at the door.

Bucky didn't stop shivering for hours. After about three, his metal hand fell with a loud _clunk_ from its outstretched position onto the floor; after five, his limbs started twitching; after seven, his eyes began to track slowly around the room. It took ten hours for him to make any other voluntary movements. He slowly turned his head to the side, blinking slowly. Then his eyes traveled upward, and his brow furrowed as he caught sight of Steve's face. "St've?" he mumbled.

"Hey, Buck," Steve said with a tremulous smile. "Happy birthday."

Bucky's metal fingers twitched. "Wh…"  His eyes widened as he took in the Chair. "No…"

"It's gonna be all right, Buck," said Steve, with much more confidence than he felt.

"Steve," said Bucky, sounding desperate. He clumsily jerked his flesh arm upward, wrapping cold fingers around Steve's ankle. "You're…real?"

"Yeah, pal," Steve said, wiggling his toes, "Yeah, I'm real."

 Bucky sighed and relaxed against the floor, his hand flopping on the ground.

"Bucky," said Steve.

Bucky didn't respond. Steve craned his neck, trying to catch Bucky's gaze, but Bucky stared up at the ceiling with a dreamy, dazed look.

"Bucky, look at me," Steve said, a little more loudly. He could hear the guards muttering in Russian at the door. Steve couldn't understand what they were saying, but he had a feeling they were trying to get Zola in the room. "Bucky!"

Bucky's head jerked. "Steve?" he gasped. "What…"

"Bucky," said Steve urgently, "can you free me from this chair?"

Bucky blinked and clumsily lifted his left hand.

"Steve," he said, his eyes wide.

"Come on, pal," said Steve in a low voice, straining against the cuffs, "I know you c –"

Steve never got to finish his sentence. The guards rushed over and dragged Bucky away, ignoring Steve's shouts and pleas. "Bucky, Bucky, hold on – we'll get through this, Buck, just hold on – "

Zola stepped in front of Steve, blocking sight of Bucky and the guards.  "Do not worry, Captain," he said, smiling, "we will not hurt the Soldier as long as you continue to comply. And we will not hurt _you_ as long as he continues to comply."

It was the perfect trap, and Zola knew it.

"Fine," Steve spat, wishing he could set Zola on fire with the hatred of his glare. Unfortunately, no such thing happened.

For 365 days, Steve and Bucky allowed HYDRA to use their bodies whichever way they chose. Zola treated Steve and Bucky like specimens, of course, taking samples of any and all biological materials, testing their memory after various amounts of time with the Chair, and forcing them to perform myriad physical assessments until their bodies gave out. He even had them spar against each other several times, although they tended to hold back, much to Zola's displeasure. No amount of punishment could get them to hurt each other, so Zola eventually settled for having the guards beat one in view of the other.

The guards couldn't do anything too extreme – Zola wanted his "perfect specimens" in top form, after all – but it didn't stop them from playing sadistic games and taking great pleasure in testing their obedience. Steve lost track of how many times he and Bucky were ordered to utter "Heil HYDRA," or lick up their "dinner" from the floor like animals, or hold their mouths open so that the guards could ram their cocks in and come down their throats. (At least the Russians had only stuck to their mouths – things had gotten much worse when they were transferred to American HYDRA.)

Bucky came up with the idea of using American sign language after Zola pulled out all his upper teeth during some experiment. When the guards dumped him in his cell afterward, they were too disgusted to get very close, so they didn't restrain him as usual. Steve, restrained in his own cell opposite Bucky's, could only watch as Bucky curled onto his side, blood dripping out of Bucky's mouth and puddling on the floor.

"Bucky," Steve hissed, pulling against the fortified chains keeping his elbows pulled up behind him and his wrists latched to the wall.

Bucky moaned and spat out blood, fruitlessly trying to wipe it off his chin with the palm of his hand. He scrubbed his hand against the greying briefs – the only item of clothing he and Steve had each been allowed to wear for several weeks – and then slapped his palm against the floor, flipped onto his belly, and began crawling toward the bars that looked out into the hallway. With his blood-stained face, uneven movement, and determined glare, he resembled some ancient, mythical monster, come to seek bloodshed on unsuspecting passersby.

Bucky hooked his metal hand through the bars and heaved himself upward into a kneeling position, barely managing not to hit his head against the low ceiling. He pulled hard on the bars, but they held firm, and he only succeeded in knocking himself off balance and onto the ground. Bucky groaned, spat  out more blood, and then tilted his head so he could catch Steve's gaze. Once he had it, he stuck his hand through the bars and signed, very slowly, _"S, T, E, V, E."_

It took Steve a moment to decipher the signs. He and Bucky had decided to learn sign language when Steve was seven, just in case Steve completely lost his hearing. (He was already partially deaf in his left ear.) They'd kept at it consistently for a few months, and then they'd dropped it, only picking it back up sporadically when Steve was bedridden from illness but recovered enough to need a distraction.

"Buck?" Steve said cautiously. "You…"

Bucky closed his mouth and swallowed the blood and drool escaping his mouth. Then he turned his head to the side and retched. He swiped his flesh knuckles across his lips and then placed his palm against his mouth, shaking his head and pointing to his ears.

Steve nodded to let him know he understood the message: their words were being recorded. Steve had suspected as much, although it hadn't stopped him and Bucky from talking to each other in the rare moments that they were left ungagged in their cells at the same time. Steve pressed his lips together and looked at Bucky's hand, tilting his head.

Bucky gestured to himself, then to Steve. _"E-S-C-A-P-E,"_ he signed, his metal hand remaining steady even as the rest of him trembled with effort. _"S-O-O-N."_ He rubbed a circle against his chest. _"Please."_

Steve flexed his hands behind him and nodded.

As Bucky's teeth grew back in – perfectly straight instead of charmingly crooked, which was a shock – Steve and Bucky practiced their sign language and planned their escape, mouthing words at each other across the hall or using the blood dripping continuously from Bucky's mouth or from fresh injuries to draw maps on the concrete floors. Fortunately, neither of them was placed in cryostasis or in the Chair, so they were able to plan without much interruption in their mental functioning. The bloody drawings they washed out with the bowls of water the guards gave them to wash or drink.

They seized their chance three weeks later, when Bucky's final tooth finally grew back in. The cells were especially cold that day, an icy chill seeping into through the walls that reminded Steve unpleasantly of the Arctic closing in on him as he laid down in the plane. The guards seemed distracted, and there were fewer of them than normal. Steve, who had picked up bits and pieces of Russian over time, heard mutters of "home" and "experiment" and "family." Bucky, who had always been quicker at picking up languages and had been forcibly trained to learn Russian in the nineteen years before Steve appeared, translated that it was Christmas Eve and the guards were eager to go home and partake in Christmas dinner with their families.

The two guards who came to feed them that night were young, new, and drunk. One of them fumbled with the keys as he trudged down the long corridor, dropping them on the floor several times.

_"Idiot,"_ said his partner.

_"Shut up,"_ said the guard.

As usual, Steve and Bucky pretended to be unconscious, hanging limp in whatever configuration the guards or Zola had decided would be most uncomfortable that day. Steve forced himself not to react as the guard kicked his cell door and jammed the key in the lock.

_"Shit,"_ Steve heard, _"It's cold here."_

The guard's partner responded with a long string of Russian. Steve thought he heard the words _"drink"_ and _"woman."_

When the cell door opened, Steve kept his eyes closed but strained his ears, listening carefully. The guard set down a bowl of slop in the far corner, then unsteadily weaved his way toward Steve, crouched down, and clumsily patted Steve's face like a small child. _"Wake up,"_ he mumbled, _"Eat."_

There was a loud _thunk_ across the way as Bucky fell from his suspended position onto the floor. Steve's guard hastened to undo the cuffs around Steve's wrists and ankles that had forced Steve into an uncomfortable kneeling position. Steve forced himself not to make a noise as sensation flooded back into his limbs.

The guard dropped the keys again, fumbling around on the floor, and Steve decided enough was enough. He opened his eyes, jumped up, and tackled the guard to the ground, wrapping an arm around his neck and another around his waist. The guard was tall but skinny, hardly a match for Steve's serum-enhanced strength despite the starvation conditions Steve had been enduring for months. Across the way, Bucky was doing the same to the other guard, a stockier, beefier man who was scrabbling at the metal arm. Bucky grabbed the man's wrists and held them still until the man lost consciousness, then gently set him down on the floor at the same time Steve set down his guard.

"Uniforms and weapons," Steve said in a low voice.

Bucky jerked his head in a nod and efficiently stripped his guard down to his briefs. He pulled on the HYDRA uniform, twisting his mouth in distaste at the HYDRA logo, then checked the items hanging from the guard's belt: a gun (surprisingly, it functioned about the same as the one Steve remembered from the war), a baton, the keys to the cell, a flashlight, a pair of black leather gloves, and a flask of light brown whiskey with a peeling paper label. Steve's guard had an identical uniform and similar items, but his guard's gloves were made of brown leather and seemed a little more ragged.

Steve and Bucky both paused a moment to drink up the slop in their bowls and carefully positioned the guard's warm hats with earflaps on top of their heads to hide their hair. Then they pulled on the gloves, quietly locked the guards into the cell, and positioned their guns like they'd seen the guards do before heading for the entrance of the base.

They passed through the base practically unnoticed. Most of the guards were gathered in one room around a long table, on which there were laid twelve colorful dishes, including a bright red soup whose color reminded Steve of blood. Nobody called out to them as they passed, but Steve's heart still pounded in his ears as he and Bucky climbed into the elevator and rode it up to the entrance level.

The two guards at the front entrance were asleep. Bucky and Steve crept past them with wide-eyed looks, and then they pushed open the double doors.

Blinding white snow immediately engulfed them, whipping into their eyes and getting under the seams of their stolen uniforms. The wind masked the clang of the doors as they slammed shut.

"Do you know where we are?" asked Steve.

Bucky shrugged. "Russia? Siberia? I remember the train in the Alps, and then waking up in the base with my arm missing. I haven't been outside since."

Steve nodded and took Bucky's hand. "Let's get moving. The snow will cover our tracks for a while."

It was slow going with the blizzard. The boots and clothes they'd borrowed from the HYDRA guards were too thin for the weather, and although their hats and gloves helped, icy pellets still blew into their faces at high speed. Steve squeezed Bucky's hand tight and plodded forward, determined to get as far away as possible before seeking shelter.

An hour later, a gunshot rang out near Bucky's foot. Bucky tensed and pulled Steve down behind a large snowbank, scanning the skies. He aimed his own gun, holding it steady with his metal hand, and fired as Steve quickly prepped his own.

More gunshots rang out, raining down around them. Steve had a sudden, sharp pang of longing for his shield. If he had it, he could at least use it to cover Bucky, but it was probably in HYDRA's hands now.

"They're not trying to kill us," said Bucky, lining up another shot. "Just a warn –" He let out a strangled groan, surprise clear on his face as he took in the blood trickling out of his right shoulder. "Must've gone wide," he muttered, barely audible over the howling snow. "Lucky shot. Let me–" Both of them jumped as a bullet cut the air between them. Bucky hunkered down behind the snowbank and blew out a breath, white puff visible in the cold air. "Steve, you run. I'll hold them off. Get – get to shelter, get to our allies, whoever those are now. Get back to America. Just –"

Steve shook his head stubbornly. "I'm not leaving you, Buck, not now, not after all this time –"

"Steve, listen – I'm just the spare, and they're shooting to kill. The person they really want is you. If they catch you, they'll keep you for God knows how long, pulling you in and out of cryo and wiping you with the Chair. I'm not going to let that happen to you, you hear me? I'm not going to let them turn you into another empty shell." Bucky groaned loudly as a bullet pierced his calf. "Go, Steve – go _n_ —"

The silence was swift and abrupt. Steve's ears rang with the echoes of gunfire as Bucky slumped forward, a pool of blood seeping from his temple onto the snow.

"Bucky, no," said Steve, his heart dropping out from under him. His hands fluttered above Bucky's injuries, but he didn't dare touch. "Bucky, please –"

There were footsteps approaching. Steve heaved a wet breath, blinking tears out of his eyes. They froze on his cheeks as he forced himself to pick up his gun and take a defensive position over Bucky.

Steve fought hard and dirty, but he couldn't defend Bucky and fend off a dozen HYDRA guards at the same time. When the guards surrounded him and Bucky in a circle, Steve dropped to his knees and held his hands up. He didn't resist as one cuffed him and pulled him upward, pressing the barrel of a gun to his skull while two others frog-marched him forward. Steve kept his eyes on Bucky, who had been lifted onto a pallet carried by four guards. His wounds were still bleeding sluggishly, and he looked pale in the dim light.

Steve let himself be restrained in the Chair as the guards laid Bucky on a metal table that had been set up in the room. They grumbled under their breath as they stripped Bucky down to his briefs and placed electrodes on his bare chest, connecting them to various monitors showing his heart beat, his pulse, and other vital signs. Then they turned to leave the room without bothering to dress Bucky's injuries.

"Wait!" Steve cried. "Please –"

One of the guards turned to look at him and smirked, barking out a command in Russian. Bile rose in Steve's gut as he heard the familiar buzzing of electricity. He frantically struggled against his bonds as the metal halos descended upon his head. "No! Please, just help him, please –"

When the white-hot pain subsided, Steve found himself staring up at Zola, who clicked his tongue like a disappointed parent.

"I told you, Captain," said Zola. "I did not want to waste the Soldier."

The words woke Steve up like a bucket of cold water. He jerked forward against the restraints, heedless of the throbbing in his head and the residual tremors in his arms and legs. Bucky's heart was still beating, but very slowly, and his blood pressure had dropped so low that the monitor was flashing bright red warning signals. His skin had taken on a gruesome bluish-grey color, contrasting against the dark red splotches staining the right side of his body.

 Zola looked over Bucky clinically. "We will at least be able to keep the arm. The rest cannot be preserved, though perhaps I can still take some samples."

Horror curled in Steve's gut. "He's – he's still alive." He cleared his throat, fighting nausea as he forced the words off his tongue.  "You said it yourself, it would be a waste. You've already invested so much time in him. He's already trained to follow your orders and – and be part of your experiments. Why throw that all away?"

Zola pinned Steve with his unsettling gaze. "What can the Soldier offer us, Captain, that you cannot provide? You heal faster, you have greater strength, and you have all your limbs. The last point alone is enough to justify the Soldier's termination. Maintaining the metal arm is a costly and inefficient endeavor, and that time and money could be better spent perfecting other HYDRA weaponry such as yourself."

Steve clenched his jaw, suppressing a flinch at Zola's last words. "If you help him," he said, well aware that he was jumping off a cliff from which he could never return, "if you save his life, I'll – I'll let you experiment on me, whenever and however you want. I won't fight anymore. I won't try to escape.  Just as long as he's alive."

Zola hummed, a thoughtful look on his face. "Are you sure you will be able to keep that vow, Captain? I have never known you to be a man who gives up easily."

Steve let out a hard breath, watching Bucky's vital signs slowing gradually on the monitors. "I've kept my word in the past. You've seen that. I'll always keep my word, and I trust you to keep yours."

Zola tilted his head, a smirk on his lips. "Very well, Captain. Consider the deal struck."

A little over six months later, Steve woke up in a metal tube surrounded by the blue light of the Tesseract. It took him two seconds of panicked gasping for him to realize he was in his old body. Zola called the transformation his birthday gift to Steve.

A light knock on the door brings Steve back to the present. He quickly secures a huge fluffy towel around himself as he listens to the familiar pattern of taps that spell out Bucky’s name. Despite the daily speech therapy they’ve both been getting, talking is still difficult, so they’ve been announcing their presence with Morse code in situations where they can’t see each other. JARVIS takes care of screening everyone who approaches their residential suite, but both Steve and Bucky had felt uncomfortable with constant monitoring in their new home, so they'd asked Tony to turn JARVIS off. Tony had done it after much huffing and puffing with the contingency that JARVIS direct them to a secure location during an emergency.

A soft, shocked sound escapes Steve as he opens the door. Bucky is dressed in a bespoke navy suit with a fitted black shirt, which would catch Steve's attention on its own, but what has Steve staring is Bucky's new haircut. It's an almost exact replica of the style he wore before the war. Steve hesitantly takes a step closer and lifts a hand, waiting for Bucky to give a nod of permission before he presses himself against Bucky's body and wraps his arms around his waist. (As part of their psychotherapy, they've been working on asking each other for permission to touch, however silly it feels sometimes). Bucky's hands skim over Steve's bare shoulders as Steve breathes in deep, catching the faint, familiar scent of pomade.

_"The haircut – you did it yourself?"_ Steve signs.

Bucky nods and vaguely mimes scrolling through the tablet. _"I watched more videos. Does it look good?"_

_"Beautiful."_

Bucky's cheeks heat, and he gives Steve a small, pleased smile. There are shadows and lines around his eyes that weren't there before, along with silvery scars from his long captivity, but his eyes are shining in a way Steve never thought he'd see again. _"Finished with bath?"_ he asks.

Steve nods.

Bucky grins. _"Wait here. I'll get your suit. Pepper asked me to bring it up when I visited Tony in his workshop."_

Bucky returns a few minutes later with a three-piece suit enclosed in a protective garment bag. After getting Steve’s permission, he helps Steve get dressed, metal and flesh fingers working together to deftly button the grey suit jacket over a light blue dress shirt with a banded collar that mostly covers the scar. Steve turns and glances at his side profile, brushing lint off his jacket pocket. _"How do I look?"_

Bucky's eyes crinkle as a teasing grin lights up his face.  “ _Like an ugly caterpillar" –_ Bucky takes the time to spell out the word – _"who's changed into a beautiful butterfly."_

Steve frowns and catches Bucky's eye in the mirror. Then, very deliberately, he slowly signs, _"You're a J-E-R-K."_

Bucky doesn't miss a beat, raising his eyebrows. _"P-U-N-K."_

Steve huffs a laugh, warmth blooming in his chest as catches Bucky frowning in the mirror and fiddling with his hair just like it's 1939. Steve waits for Bucky to finish, and then he takes Bucky’s flesh hand, brushing his thumb against the other man's knuckles. Bucky smiles softly and tilts his head toward the door with a questioning look. Steve nods and leads the way out of the bathroom.

They exit straight into their bedroom, which features a luxurious bed piled high with pillows and blankets. Translucent curtains hang down strategically near the corners from the ceiling, and Steve takes a moment admire the way the sunlight shines through them, giving the room a soft, dreamlike glow. (He and Bucky had considered a canopy bed, but the four tall posts reminded them too much of the various cages that American HYDRA liked to keep them in as punishment and "entertainment," so they'd quickly nixed the idea.) Steve makes a mental note to place an order for some paint supplies. He's done plenty of pencil sketches since arriving at the Tower – often it's the only way for him to manage the memories, both good and bad, crammed in his head – but this sight needs a different medium to capture.

Next to the bedroom is their personalized gym, filled with free weights, resistance bands, giant bouncy balls, and other equipment necessary for their physical therapy regimens. One wall consists of floor-to-ceiling windows made of Hulk-proof glass; Tony's assured them that due to security measures on the Tower, Steve and Bucky can look outside all they want, no one can actually look inside. The opposite wall consists of a huge mirror, which they cover with heavy curtains more often than not; doing physical activity in front of mirrors tends to bring back memories of brutal HYDRA training sessions for Bucky and HYDRA "parties" for Steve, who was often the party favor for various HYDRA officials.

Steve shakes off the memories and smiles at the deceptively simple-looking dining table and its four wooden chairs as they pass through the kitchen. Bucky is obsessed with IKEA, a Swedish store with modular furniture whose assembly instructions are apparently impossible to interpret, and the kitchen is chock-full of IKEA-branded kitchenware. Steve had pretended not to be absorbed in the tablet when Bucky and Tony put the table together, but he'd seen and heard every single curse word the pair had exchanged.

In the living room stand tall bookshelves stacked high with well-worn paperbacks (Bucky's science fiction collection) and newer, larger books with glossy finishes (Steve's history and politics books). Nearby sits a scuffed wooden coffee table with piles of leather-bound sketchbooks and journals (used for psychotherapy and for leisure) and a squashy leather couch heaped with soft, fuzzy throws. A shaggy rug covers the polished hardwood floors, and on top of it sits a giant Totoro pillow that they turns napping on when the mid-afternoon sun hits just right. The pillow appeared at their doorstep the night after they binge-watched a bunch of Hayao Miyazaki movies with the Avengers as part of their housewarming party. Steve had been so absorbed by the animation that he'd barely noticed the chatter around him.

In the elevator, JARVIS tells them that Tony them to stop by his workshop before heading out. Tony greets them right at the door, bouncing excitedly on his feet and wrinkling his suit. "Looking sharp, nonagenarians," he says, turning and completely missing the eyerolls Steve and Bucky send to the back of his head. "Follow me, I've got a surprise for you."

Pepper stands and greets them with an approving smile. "You look great, both of you." She clears her throat and straightens her shoulders, setting a large black bag on the table. "Steve, I believe this belongs to you. Go ahead, open it."

Steve's mouth goes dry as he unzips the bag, revealing a familiar white star on a blue background, ringed by red and white circles.

It's his shield.

Steve inhales sharply and closes his eyes as memories assault him: placing the shield against his chest as he laid down in the Valkyrie, speeding toward ice and hoping that he'd at least see Bucky and his mother when he woke; watching helplessly from the Chair as Zola melted down the outer two layers of the shield with a gleeful smile; the metal wrapping around his neck for the first time, fusing together with a shudder that sent tremors through Steve's blood; the burning at his nape, his wrists, his ankles as the scientists forcefully welded steel D-links onto the vibranium after the cuffs had already been installed.

Steve doesn't realize he's swaying until a metal hand wraps firmly around his waist. His eyes fly open and he meets Bucky's worried gaze. _"Sorry,"_ Steve signs, panting as sweat breaks out on his forehead. His heart pounds loudly in his ears.

_"Breathe,"_ Bucky signs, placing a warm hand on Steve's chest.

Steve nods, leaning on Bucky and forcing himself to gulp in air until he's regained his equilibrium. The shield is still lying on the table, and Steve's gaze skitters away from it before he grits his teeth and forces himself to look. His fingers tremble as he runs them over the smooth metal, tracing the scuff marks where Peggy's bullet hit its unpainted surface seventy years ago.

"Steve?" Pepper asks in a gentle tone, placing a hand on Tony's arm when he looks like he's about to speak. "Are you all right?"

Steve nods, inhaling sharply as he turns the shield over and slips his arm into the stained, discolored leather straps. They look absurdly big over his thin bones. Steve swallows the lump in his throat and turns the shield back over, staring at the star. It takes him a moment to find the words he wants to sign, and he only gets half of them out. _"Where? How?"_

Tony clears his throat, scratching the back of his head. "Um, it was in Dad's archives – okay technically it was at the Smithsonian, because we lent to them for their, uh, their exhibition on Cap – on you, both of you really, but mostly you – this was before we found you two in the base," Tony hastens to add, when he seems the alarm on Steve and Bucky's faces.

"The exhibition's been postponed until further notice," Pepper says. "I asked the Smithsonian to return the shield and other items that belonged to you two. The shield arrived first, and the rest of your personal effects should arrive by the end of the week. I'll deliver them to your suite when they arrive."

"Anyway, Dad's notes said that S.H.I.E.L.D. acquired the shield – ha –  in 1964. I guess he got a hold of it somehow to – um…." Tony looks away and mumbles, "He designed the tracker in your collar. In, uh, in 1980. And, now that I think of it, Barnes, he probably designed the one you said was in the old metal arm. Sorry."

_"Tony,"_ Steve signs, waiting until Tony reluctantly lifts his head and meets his eyes. _"It's okay. We know. We were there. In the end he helped us, tried to save us. We forgave him. A long time ago."_

Tony clears his throat roughly and turns away, swiping at his eyes. Steve politely pretends not to notice, averting his eyes as Pepper pulls Tony into an embrace, but Bucky makes an aborted movement toward Tony and bites his lip hard, guilt written in every line of his body. He catches Steve's gaze, and his jaw tightens.

_"I'll tell him about his parents soon."_ Bucky keeps his movements small. JARVIS doesn't translate the words.

Steve nods and interlaces his fingers with Bucky's, squeezing hard. The story of Howard and Maria Stark's deaths is complicated, and Tony deserves to hear it, but it's a conversation for another day.

"Steve," says Pepper in a gentle tone, "What do you want to do with the shield?"

Steve takes a deep breath and lets it out. _"I don't know,"_ he signs with a bittersweet smile. He runs his fingers along the ridges of the circles, feeling the warped seams where someone attached two outer layers after Zola took them to make the collar and cuffs. Steve suspects that Howard did the replacement, and the thought leaves a strange, unsettled feeling in his gut. _"Can I think about it?"_

"Of course," says Pepper. "I'll keep it in the Stark Archives for now, all right? Those are located in the Tower."

Steve nods.

Tony heaves a deep breath and turns to face them. "We better get going. Aunt Peg'll be mad if I'm late. J, what time is it?"

"It is 12:47 PM, sir."

Tony's eyes widen. "Okay, we have to get moving. Nonnies, here are your disguises – just put them on over your face like one of those scary sheet masks people use as part of their beauty routine." He holds out his hands, showing them a thin mesh laying atop each palm. Steve picks his up gingerly, staring at the photograph of the face built into the mesh. It's got short red hair, brown eyes, and a huge sprinkling of freckles over pale cheeks. Bucky grimaces at his own mesh's face, which consists of a thin, lean face with light brown hair, hazel eyes, a long nose, and thin lips. Both faces look young.

"They're Photostatic Veils that the spy kids acquired from S.H.I.E.L.D. No poisons, toxins, trackers, or anything. Just slap one on your face, and you're turned into someone else. Neat, huh? And before you report me to an ethics committee, these aren't faces of real people – they're faces generated by Generative Adversarial Network –"

"Basically, a computer," Pepper interrupts, looking disturbed.

"Um, I guess you could say that. They were designed by a really advanced AI…thought not as advanced as you, J, of course."

"Thank you, sir," says JARVIS dryly.

"I'm not sure 'neat' is the right word for these things, but currently they're the best resource available," says Pepper. "And they won't hurt – Tony and I have tested them ourselves."

Steve braces himself and presses the mesh against his forehead. There's a brief tingling sensation all over his face that stops almost as soon as it starts. He watches in fascinated horror as Bucky's face transforms before his eyes.

"Perfect," Tony declares.

_"I don't like these,"_ Steve signs to Bucky.

_"I don't like them either,"_ Bucky responds, his displeasure even more pronounced with the different face. He's wearing black leather gloves, presumably to hide his metal hand.

Tony sighs and waves a hand, leading Steve, Bucky, and Pepper to the elevator. "Everybody's a critic."

Clint and Natasha are waiting for them in a hangar located at the top of the Tower, standing guard next to an advanced airplane – a Quinjet, Steve quickly recalls. Natasha raises an eyebrow as she spots Steve and Bucky, and Clint does a double-take, peering at their new faces. "Wow," he murmurs, "it's weird seeing these things in action."

The ride from the Tower to Washington D.C. takes a little over an hour. Steve stares out the window, distantly noting the incredible view as his heart beats a fast rhythm in his ears. He startles a little at a touch on his wrist.

_"Nervous?"_ asks Bucky.

Steve nods. _"It's been a long time, and I'm still bad at dancing."_

Bucky responds with a small, sad smile. _"Dancing?"_

Steve nods. _"Before the plane crashed, we planned a date. The Stork Club, a week from Saturday. I'm very late."_ Steve's heart clenches at the memory of the actual crash, and then the memory of telling Bucky the same exact story while they were HYDRA prisoners. Bucky had gotten the Chair shortly afterward.

Bucky brushes Steve's wrist again. _"Steve, listen to me. You're on your way now_. _Late is better than never."_

_"You're right."_ Steve lets out a shaky breath, a tidal wave of emotion washing over him: fear, grief, anger, and most of all gratitude that Bucky's here with him. If Steve had never been found…if Bucky'd had to suffer alone for fifty, sixty, seventy years…

Bucky touches his wrist again, then leans over and stretches out his left arm, letting it hover above Steve's shoulder. _"Okay?"_

Steve nods. He sighs and leans back, resting his head against Bucky's arm for the rest of the flight.

Clint lands the Quinjet in an open field housing a picturesque mansion. He whistles as he shuts off the engine. "That your house, Stark?"

Tony nods. "Welcome to the Stark DC Estate. We won't be staying here tonight, though."

Steve and Bucky linger outside with Pepper, taking in deep breaths while Clint, Natasha, and Tony fetch the car from the garage at the back of the house. Steve closes his eyes and tilts his face toward the sun, letting it warm him from the inside out. He and Bucky haven't really been outside ever since the Avengers rescued them from the HYDRA base. The closest they've come is visiting the Tower's rooftop garden, which despite its name is enclosed in a glass dome that has small slits in its ceiling to let in light and air.

Steve can't wait for the day they can go out in public freely with their own identities in place, ready to be part of this brave new world they've found themselves in.  But even though it's been three months, they're not at that point in their recovery yet, and they won't be for a while.

"Steve, Bucky, are you ready?" asks Pepper.

Steve opens his eyes, watching a shiny black SUV approach. Natasha hops out from the driver's seat, and Clint emerges from the back, leaving the door open. "Rendezvous in three hours, periodic check-ins every half-hour through comms," he says, handing Pepper an earpiece. "Stark's got his Iron Man suit with him if anything goes wrong. We'll be on standby here with the jet. Have a good trip."

The car is quiet as Pepper drives them through winding, tree-lined roads that open up into concrete roads with multiple lanes. Steve watches the modern cars pass by on the highway in a daze. He knows he's been transported – or to put it more generously, he's _traveled_ – on the interstate highway system before, but seeing it in broad daylight without being drugged or restrained is overwhelming. He closes his eyes and leans his head against the seat, trying to ground himself before they arrive. He homes in on Tony's muttering in the front passenger seat – he seems to be tweaking his newest iteration of his Iron Man suit – and then tunes his ears to the steady sound of Bucky's breathing.

It takes a half-hour for them to arrive. Pepper helps Bucky and Steve out of the car while Tony checks in with Clint and Natasha. "You two doing all right?" asks Pepper in a low voice.

Steve and Bucky both nod.  

"Okay. If you need to take a break at any point, let us know, all right?"

Steve nods distractedly, his throat tight as he takes in the assisted living facility. It looks like a huge hotel, its exterior painted white and the window shutters painted a nice sky blue. The sign hanging over its double glass doors names it "Sunrise House" and has a cheerful logo of a yellow sun rising over green hills.

Pepper sighs and smooths down her pants, turning to Tony, who's fidgeting next to the car. "Okay, Tony. Lead the way."

Tony clears his throat and puts on a pair of sunglasses, then breezes inside the facility. He checks them in at the front desk with all the arrogance of a person who's used to being given what he wants. He introduces Steve and Bucky as "Abel" and "Carl," his new college interns who are looking for community service credit. Then he heads inside the facility, calling for his interns to hurry up and follow him. Pepper gives the receptionist an apologetic smile as they pass. "Thank you for your assistance, Sandra, we really appreciate it."

Sandra shakes her head ruefully. "We're used to it by now, Miss Potts. It's nice for both of you to take time out of your busy schedules to come see Miss Carter. I don't know many CEOs who would bother."

Pepper exchanges a sad smile with Sandra and turns away. "Come on, guys. Let's get to the elevator before Tony decides to go without us."

Tony keeps up the act up until they reach Peggy's door, which is at the corner of a long hallway, right next to the stairwell. He taps his wrist twice and then says in a low, serious tone, "Okay, I've activated security measures, so we'll be able to see anyone approaching and spot any recording devices without messing with any medical equipment. I'll go in and talk to Peggy first, and then you two can come in." He knocks lightly, and then slips inside without waiting for an answer.

Steve sinks down onto a wooden bench nearby, Bucky a solid, watchful presence at his side. Steve stares at the patterned carpet, blue-green-gold swirls dancing in his vision as he rubs his throat. He hopes his voice will work the way he wants it to.

It seems like an eternity passes before Tony comes back out, but when Steve looks up at the clock, it's only been ten minutes. "She's ready to see you. Wait till the door closes before taking off the masks."

Steve takes a deep breath and braces himself. Then he steps inside, Bucky at his heels. Steve barely notices Tony slipping out past them.

Peggy's lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to a bunch of machines that remind Steve too much of HYDRA. As soon as Steve hears the soft _snick_ of the door, he rips off the mesh and rushes to her side. Peggy has deep wrinkles on her face and her hair's snow-white, but her eyes are just as sharp and alert as he remembers.

"Steve?" she whispers with wide eyes. Her eyes drift to Steve's side, and she gasps as Bucky hesitantly steps forward, standing just behind Steve's left shoulder. "James?"

Steve swallows hard, massaging his throat, and forcefully pushes the words out of his mouth. "Hey, Peg," he manages in a hoarse rasp, and he gives her a tenuous smile. "I'm late. Sorry."

Peggy gives them a disbelieving smile. "It's so good to see you. I didn't believe Tony..." Her eyes fill with tears. "He told me that HYDRA had you the whole time. If – If I had known…I would've stopped at nothing to get you both back."

"Not your fault," Steve rasps, wishing his voice didn't sound so harsh.

Peggy flails and reaches out a hand. "Give me your hand, Steve. And you, James, that's it." She huffs impatiently as Bucky hesitates, then finally places his glove-covered left hand into hers. Her eyes drift to the nightstand, where Steve notices, for the first time with a sudden shock, a wedding photo featuring a man who looks vaguely familiar and children who are very clearly hers. Peggy laughs as she notices his reaction. "Observant as usual, Rogers. Good thing you have Barnes here to watch your back."

Steve huffs a laugh, and Bucky's face lights with a grin.

Peggy's smile fades. "Listen to me, both of you, before I forget. I've lived my life, and I am proud of what I've achieved. But you never got to live yours. The world has changed, and none of us can go back. All we can do is start over. Promise me you won't dwell on everything you've missed. Promise me you'll do your best to live full lives for yourselves. Promise –" She starts coughing, and Steve quickly turns and pours her a glass of water, bringing it to her lips and tilting it so she can swallow.

Peggy leans back with a sigh, closing her eyes. When she next opens them, they're clouded with grief.

"Steve?" she asks weakly. "You – you're small again!" Her eyes widen in disbelief. _"Barnes?"_

Steve can't speak. He's run out of words. His gut twists with grief as Peggy starts to laugh hysterically. "I must be hallucinating," she whispers to herself. "But it's so good to see you both again. Of – of course you'd both visit together –" Another coughing fit hits her, and Steve hastens to bring the glass of water to her lips. Peggy drinks and smiles. "You always were so kind, Steve," she whispers, and her eyes drift closed.

Pepper clears her throat quietly from where she's been standing at the door. "It might be a good time for us to go," she says.

Steve nods and stands carefully, swallowing his tears as he takes one last look at Peggy. He wishes they'd thought to bring a card of some sort, although that would have been a security risk. Maybe flowers would work next time – something to remind her that they'd visited, that they were real, that they were happy to see her. Bucky takes Steve's hand and squeezes it once, then carefully puts his mesh mask back on. Steve takes a moment to wipe his face before following suit.

Steve spends the return trip curled up in the seat, his head resting against Bucky's chest as Bucky gently pets Steve's hair. He can't help but compare it to the last time they rode in a Quinjet to Avengers Tower – starved, half-delirious, terrified but determined not to show it, bracing themselves for whatever treatment their new owners deemed appropriate. Steve can hardly believe that they're both safe, alive, and together. He keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop, half-convinced that their stay at is just one long fantasy he's concocted to help him cope with captivity, his serum-generated eidetic memory finally giving out in the face of unbearable suffering. Any moment now, he's going to wake up chained and imprisoned on the floor of a HYDRA base, waiting to be raped and tortured and humiliated while Bucky suffers similar indignities nearby.

Peggy's words echo through his head, and Steve shakes himself a little. He closes his eyes and focuses on the sensations around him just as his psychotherapist has advised: Bucky's warm fingers stroking his scalp, the buzzing of the Quinjet engine, the banter between Clint and Natasha in the pilots' seats, the softer, fonder tones of affection between Pepper and Tony up near the front. Steve takes a deep breath, in and out, and deliberately relaxes his body, starting with his toes and moving upward all the way to his shoulders.

When the Quinjet lands, Steve shakes himself awake, feeling well-rested and clear-headed. He pulls Bucky aside as they disembark, taking advantage of the outside for just a little longer so they can watch the beginnings of the sunset. He hears the rest of the group stop and gather around behind them, standing guard. Not to stop them from escaping, Steve realizes, but to protect them from getting hurt. They stand together in companionable silence, watching the sun dip below the horizon. When the pink and red hues fade into a darker greyish purple, Steve turns and follow everyone back inside with a contented smile, Bucky's hand warm and firm in his own.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost to the end, all! Can you guess whose point of view we're getting next? :-)

**Author's Note:**

> Title based on One Direction's underrated song ["Through the Dark"](https://youtu.be/ouS9elaQAvM). 
> 
> I am on dreamwidth as [dragongirlG](https://dragongirlg.dreamwidth.org/). Please feel free to come say hello.
> 
> Thank you to Sable on the Stucky AU Bang Slack chat for the friendly advice about American sign language syntax. I really appreciate it. I hope I have written the parts with ASL respectfully and appropriately.
> 
> This work is part of the [Long Live Feedback Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. I invite and appreciate feedback, including: short comments, long comments, questions, constructive criticism for copyediting and continuity, “<3” as extra kudos, and reader-reader interaction. Feel free to use the LLF Comment Builder.
> 
> I reply to comments. If you don’t want a reply for any reason (sometimes I feel shy when I’m reading and not up to starting a conversation, for example), feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond.


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